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[heliosunny]

Hello!! hello! i love all your works!!! and how much you post per day???? pls take breaks between writing if you can!

i read the streamer!jing yuan one...

if requests are open can i request sunday with the same scenario?

i imagine he'd never play any otome games on his own so robin would have to coerce him into playing the game. i also see him to be the type of player who'd clear every route and have things down to a T ...

but what if there was one route he never finished? the hardest route to trigger and the one with the most bad endings cause the favourability bar is super fickle?

but the payoff is worth it once he somehow???? manages to trigger a yandere event hehe

Yandere!Streamer Sunday x Reader

Game Loading… Welcome Back.

Sunday leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms before settling in for another long night. He still couldn’t believe he was doing this.

When Robin had first forced him to play, he’d scoffed at the idea. Him? A dating game? No way. But somewhere along the way—after countless hours, multiple endings, and way too much money spent on DLC—he’d become obsessed. His competitive streak wouldn’t let him quit until he had 100% completion.

And yet, one route remained unfinished.

Yours.

You were the hardest love interest to win over, your favorability bar more unstable than any other. No matter what he did, one wrong move could send it plummeting. He had watched others fail, seen forums filled with players begging for hints. No one had a clear guide. No one had reached the true ending.

Tonight, that would change.

“Alright, chat” he muttered, rolling his shoulders. “I don’t care how long it takes—I’m finishing Y/N’s route tonight.”

“Sunday, you’re too deep in, bro.” “At this point, Y/N is your real partner.” “No way you’re getting the true ending. It’s cursed.” “Watch him fumble and lose favorability in five minutes.”

He exhaled, ignoring the teasing comments as the title screen faded, and the game resumed where he left off.

This was it.

Carefully, he selected his next dialogue option, choosing words with precision. Your sprite appeared, and for the first time in all his failed attempts, the favorability bar twitched upward.

[Favorability +5]

“That’s new” he muttered, brows furrowing. Chat exploded with excitement, theories flying in real-time. He leaned in, hyper-focused. The background music softened, replaced by an eerie silence.

Then, the screen flickered.

“What the-?”

Your expression on screen shifted. Subtle, almost imperceptible. The soft smile you usually wore seemed… off. Before he could react, a new dialogue box popped up.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“?????” “This isn’t in the script, bro.” “GOT THE SECRET ROUTE?!” “ABORT. ABORT.”

Before he could click anything, the screen distorted. Pixels warped, the background dissolving into a mess of static. A sudden high-pitched ringing filled his headphones.

Then—darkness.

Sunday had always been good at games. He could grind through any RPG, master mechanics, and break down any system with enough time and effort. But Ethereal Reverie: Fated Bonds was different.

When he stumbled upon your route, he had been hooked.

You were different from other love interests. You're the ultimate challenge. And Sunday loves that.

In the world of Ethereal Reverie, you were the kingdom’s renowned scholar and strategist, sought after by nobles and rulers alike. Your mind was your greatest weapon, and you wielded it with precision. Unlike the other characters—who were knights, royals, and adventurers—you had no need for physical prowess. Instead, you navigated court politics, warfare, and intrigue, always three steps ahead of everyone else.

Most players never even got past your acquaintance phase. Your favorability was infamously fickle—one wrong move and you'd cut ties with the protagonist entirely, locking them out of your story. It was said that only a handful of players had even managed to trigger a romance flag, and none had reached the true ending.

Sunday was determined to be the first.

But now, as he stared up at you—no longer a 2D sprite but a living, breathing person—he realized he had made a grave mistake.

“Sunday.”

His breath caught in his throat. You knew his name. That wasn’t possible. His in-game avatar had a preset name—Caius—the default protagonist. But you weren’t looking at Caius. You were looking at him.

Sunday barely had time to process what was happening before another voice called out from behind you.

“Lord Sunday, you’ve finally arrived.”

What?

It wasn’t just you.

He turned his head sharply, eyes darting around. The grand stone courtyard he had landed in was familiar—ornate fountains, banners bearing the royal crest, and intricate marble pillars. This was the capital’s royal palace, the heart of the kingdom.

He knew this place. He had seen it countless times in the game.

But this wasn’t the protagonist’s usual starting point.

And then the pieces clicked.

His ornate outfit, the way the NPCs were addressing him, the "Lord" title—

This wasn’t his usual avatar.

The game hadn’t just dragged him into the world. It had assigned him a new role.

A dangerous one.

There was only one person in Ethereal Reverie who was constantly at odds with you. One person who stood as your rival in the court’s deadly political game. The one strategist whose name was whispered with both admiration and fear—

Lord Sunday, the Grand Strategist of the Northern Territories.

He had become your greatest enemy.

Why the hell did the game slot me into the villain’s role?

“Lord Sunday. I hope you’re ready. We have much to discuss.”

He had spent a month obsessing over you, trying to understand your thought process, learning every intricate detail of your route. He knew how dangerous you could be.

And now, he was trapped inside the game—forced to be your rival.

The tension in the grand hall was suffocating.

Sunday sat at the long, polished table, hands clenched into fists against his lap as his brain scrambled to keep up. Across from him, you stood poised, arms crossed, your expression carefully neutral—yet he could see the sharpness in your gaze, the unmistakable glint of contempt.

You hated him.

Which was funny, considering he had spent weeks trying to get you to like him.

“This is reckless” you said coldly, turning away from him to address the gathered nobles and military officers. “If we march our forces north under such a thinly-veiled deception, we risk stretching our supply lines too far. It’s a fool’s errand.”

Sunday barely heard the murmurs of agreement that followed. His mind was still caught on the fact that you were speaking to him like he was an actual person. Not a scripted character, but as though he had always been here—as though this world had been real from the start.

And worst of all?

His name, his role in this world, had come with pre-existing relationships—and every single one of them pointed to you absolutely despising him.

He could feel the weight of the stares on him, waiting for his rebuttal. He had no choice but to play along.

“Stretching our supply lines?” he scoffed, leaning back into his chair, “What, do you think my forces can’t handle a simple flanking maneuver? Or do you just enjoy opposing me on principle?”

A flicker of irritation crossed your face. “I oppose stupid ideas on principle.”

There it is.

You had always been like this in the game—blunt, tactical, calculating. You didn’t suffer fools, and apparently, he was a fool in your eyes.

Fine. If that’s how this world saw him, he’d use it to his advantage.

“The southern front is already stabilizing” he continued smoothly, gesturing to the map. “If we strike before the enemy fully regroups, we force them into a defensive position and eliminate their supply routes. You can’t tell me you don’t see the logic in that.”

You narrowed your eyes, and for a moment, Sunday swore he saw something flicker across your expression.

Then, your lips curled into a humorless smile.

“Oh, I see the logic. I also see the arrogance of a man who plays at war like a gambler throwing dice.”

A collective oof rippled through the court. Even Sunday felt that one.

The tension between the two of you was so thick it could be cut with a blade.

“Tell me, Lord Sunday” you continued, “when was the last time one of your little schemes didn’t end in absolute disaster?”

That was a loaded question.

And one he definitely didn’t know the answer to.

Because he had no idea what his past self had actually done in this world.

What the hell did my predecessor do to make you hate me this much?!

Sunday knew when to back down. He had spent the past month failing your route over and over again, watching his choices backfire, and seeing your favorability bar plummet to zero in an instant. Pushing you wouldn’t work.

So, he changed tactics.

For the next few weeks, Sunday did what he did best—he studied you.

Not in the obsessive, love-struck way he had before. No, this time, he played the role the game had given him—your rival. A nuisance at court, a persistent thorn in your side, someone you could never quite get rid of.

But somewhere along the way, he started slipping into your life.

When you left the palace on a diplomatic mission, your caravan mysteriously found safe passage through bandit territory—unaware that Sunday had bribed the local mercenaries to keep them away.

When you spent long nights buried in military reports, a second set of documents would appear on your desk—already summarized with the most critical information highlighted.

When an assassination attempt nearly succeeded in the dead of night, your would-be killer was found dead in an alley the next morning. The guards claimed they had no idea who had done it.

And your favorability bar?

It didn’t move.

No matter how many times Sunday secretly lent a hand, no matter how much effort he put in, you remained completely indifferent to him.

It was infuriating.

It was addicting.

But then, Kristiana betrayed you.

And Sunday knew—this was it. This was where he had to step in.

Kristiana—your most trusted friend, the one person you had allowed yourself to rely on—had sold you out.

For what?

Power. Influence. A higher seat at the table.

Sunday had seen the signs before you did.

But even he hadn’t expected it to be this cruel.

By the time you realized, it was too late.

The palace was in an uproar, whispers spreading like wildfire. You had been accused of treason. Fabricated evidence, falsified reports—all of it meticulously crafted to erase you from power.

And it would have worked.

If Sunday hadn’t stepped in.

When you were dragged into the throne room, stripped of your titles and power, the nobles stood like vultures, watching your downfall with thinly veiled amusement. Kristiana stood at the front, her expression unreadable.

And then—

Sunday spoke.

“...What an interesting turn of events.”

His voice was lazy, amused, and every single person in the room stiffened. Because Sunday never spoke at these gatherings unless he had something dangerous to say.

You turned to him, eyes narrowing. “What are you playing at?”

He ignored you.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but are we really accusing the kingdom’s greatest strategist of treason?” He chuckled. “How convenient. And Kristiana, of all people, is the one bringing it forward?”

Kristiana lifted her chin. “The evidence is irrefutable.”

Sunday tilted his head. “Is it?”

Then, before anyone could react, he threw a stack of papers onto the table.

“What—” Kristiana’s eyes widened.

Sunday grinned. “Because I have evidence too. And mine says you’re the traitor.”

Kristiana paled.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” he said, “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice?”

He turned to look at you “I told you, didn’t I?” His voice was quieter now, softer, just for you. “You don’t have to fight alone.”

And for the first time since you met him, since he arrived in this world, your favorability bar moved.

All eyes were on Sunday. It was infuriating how effortlessly he controlled the room.

He had just turned your execution trial into his own personal stage.

Kristiana’s hands trembled as she stared at the documents he had thrown onto the table. Papers filled with her secret dealings, her correspondence with enemy factions—detailed proof that she had orchestrated everything.

You didn’t know whether to feel furious or relieved.

Kristiana quickly schooled her expression, regaining her composure. “This is absurd” she said sharply, eyes flicking between Sunday and the king. “Lord Sunday has always opposed Y/N. He has no reason to support them now unless—”

Her gaze snapped to you, then back to Sunday.

“…Unless he’s playing a game of his own.”

She was right. Sunday was known for strategy, deception, manipulation. He wasn’t a savior. He was your rival. You thought.

This wasn’t kindness—this was tactics.

Kristiana latched onto that, her voice rising. “Your Majesty, can’t you see? This is just another one of his ploys! He—he’s aligning with them to further his own agenda!”

Sunday let out a low chuckle.

“Now, now, Kristiana.” His tone was almost mocking. “If that were true, wouldn’t it make you the fool for not realizing it sooner?”

Kristiana’s face burned red with rage.

And you didn’t know what to believe.

Sunday’s interference had saved you. But why?

You weren’t friends. You weren’t allies. You were enemies.

“Your Majesty” Sunday finally said, turning to the king with that same, insufferable confidence. “With all due respect, I think it’s clear who the real traitor is.”

The king’s gaze flickered between you and Kristiana. The weight of the court’s murmurs filled the air.

“Guards” the king ordered. “…Take Kristiana into custody.”

“Wait—!”

The guards moved instantly, seizing her arms before she could react. She thrashed against them, screaming your name—screaming that you would regret this. That Sunday would betray you, too.

And maybe she was right.

You didn’t even notice how tightly your hands had curled into fists until you felt the sting of your own nails against your palms.

The moment the doors slammed shut behind Kristiana’s struggling form, the tension in the room finally snapped.

“What do you want?” you asked him, voice carefully neutral.

Sunday smiled.

“I’m resigning from my position as Grand Strategist.”

The room erupted.

“You—”

Sunday’s smirk didn’t waver as he turned his back on them all. “Figure the rest out yourselves. I’m done.”

And with that, he walked away.

Sunday had abandoned his entire career.

For what?

You didn’t know.

And that was the most dangerous part of all.

The tavern was dimly lit, the scent of alcohol and warm food hanging in the air. It was quieter than usual—most of the patrons had already retreated to their rooms or stumbled home.

Sunday sat alone in the corner, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass of dark liquor. He wasn’t drunk, but there was a sluggishness to his movements.

His fingers tapped idly against the table as he swirled the drink in his hand. Resigning had been necessary. The position was a leash, binding him to forces he had no control over. And if he wanted to truly be close to you— if he wanted to get everything he desired—

He had to start over.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

His eyes snapped open.

You stood at the entrance of the tavern. Unlike in the palace, where your every movement was calculated, here, in the dim light of the inn, there was something… different about you.

Sunday leaned back in his chair, “What, no gloating? I thought you’d be thrilled to see me jobless and miserable.”

You sighed, stepping forward. “I don’t have time for your dramatics.”

You pulled out the chair across from him and sat down, elbows resting on the worn wooden table.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Don’t play dumb.”

“Kristiana was a problem,” he said simply. “I dealt with it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

For a moment, he considered telling you the truth. That you were the reason. That, in another life, he had spent weeks chasing after you, memorizing every dialogue choice, failing and failing just to see you look at him with something other than cold indifference.

That this was all a game to him once—but now?

Now, it was his reality.

“Would you believe me if I said I was just tired of playing the role they wanted me to?”

Your brows furrowed, caught off guard by his sincerity.

“I should just let you waste away here, but…”

You hesitated. Then, with a sigh, you reached into your coat and slid a folded letter across the table.

“…I need a strategist.”

His fingers brushed over the letter as he picked it up, unfolding it with careful precision. His eyes scanned the contents—an official contract, under your seal. The offer was clear: a position within your faction, under your personal command.

He had to bite back the grin threatening to form.

Staying in the palace as Grand Strategist kept him shackled to the court’s politics, unable to act freely. But working under you?

That gave him access to everything.

To you.

“Does this mean we’re friends now?”

“Don’t push it.”

“I accept.”

And just like that—

He had slipped right back into your life.

The first few days of having Sunday around were... strange.

You weren’t used to having someone constantly at your side. At first, you thought giving him a position as your personal servant was just a way to keep him under control—make sure he wasn’t scheming something behind your back. After all, he was your enemy.

Or at least, he used to be.

Now, he was everywhere.

You barely had a moment to breathe without Sunday inserting himself into your routine. If you so much as reached for a teapot, he was already pouring your tea. If you sighed after a long day of dealing with incompetent nobles, he was magically at your side, hands on your shoulders, pressing into the knots of tension like he’d done it a thousand times before.

“Why are you still here?” you muttered, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Sunday, standing beside your desk, completely unbothered, merely hummed as he flipped through the reports you had been working on. “Making sure you don’t overwork yourself.”

“I can handle myself.”

“Mm. Clearly.” He held up a document, tilting his head. “Like this mistake right here?”

You snatched the paper from his hand, scanning it quickly—only to freeze when you spotted the minor miscalculation. Your grip on the paper tightened.

Sunday smirked. “You’re welcome.”

You exhaled sharply, setting the document down before rubbing your temples. “I should fire you.”

“But you won’t.”

With a sigh, you leaned back in your chair, exhaustion settling in. You had been working since morning, and the strain was finally catching up to you.

Without a word, Sunday moved behind you.

Before you could react, his hands were on your shoulders, fingers pressing into the knots of tension with practiced ease.

“…You’re tense”

You gritted your teeth. “Maybe because someone keeps breathing down my neck.”

He chuckled, his fingers working at the tension with slow, deliberate pressure. It felt annoyingly good. You hated to admit it, but he was good at this.

“You know” he said, “I think I’m growing on you.”

Your eyes snapped open.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

And yet, he didn’t stop.

---

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅. Secret route triggered. Remaining lives: 4

Sunday gasped as his consciousness was yanked back into existence. One moment, there was nothing—just the cold, suffocating embrace of death. And then, suddenly—He was back.

He jolted upright, hand instinctively clutching his chest. He could still feel it. The sharp pain. The blood. The sheer betrayal.

You had killed him.

Not out of hatred. Not out of revenge.

But because you thought he was scheming against you.

The memory was blurry. He remembered standing in your office, your cold, empty gaze, the guards stepping forward—your blade piercing through him.

This was new. The system had never interfered like this before. He had suspected that this world wasn’t entirely real, but for it to suddenly have rules about death?

The message had been clear:

If he died four more times, he was gone for good.

And there was only one way to stop that from happening.

He had to figure out why you had killed him.

-2nd life-

This time, Sunday was careful.

He stayed out of sight. He watched. He listened. He took note of everything—the way the guards moved, the shifts in your behavior, the whispers among the servants.

And yet, despite all his caution, he still died.

A dagger in the dark.

Slipping through his ribs as he passed through the halls alone.

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅. Remaining lives: 3

-3rd life-

He wasn’t alone this time.

He stuck by your side closer than ever, watching you, watching your people. And still— The moment he took a sip of wine, his throat locked up. His vision blurred. Poison. As his body collapsed to the floor, he saw the wide-eyed horror on your face, the way you rushed to his side.

The way you whispered, "Who did this?"

But the system was already pulling him back.

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅. Remaining lives: 2

---

When he came back again, Sunday finally had enough pieces.

He had overheard the murmurs between the palace servants. How they whispered in dark corners, how they spoke of him as if he was a threat. How someone had been spreading lies about him to you.

You had always been calculating. If you believed he was plotting something, then that meant you were given evidence.

Fabricated evidence.

And just like that—he knew.

Someone in your inner circle wanted him dead.

And if he didn’t fix it soon,

he would die for real.

Sunday had two lives left.

This time, he didn’t act recklessly. He smiled at the servants. Charmed the guards. Pretended he didn’t know that any of them had already been responsible for his previous deaths.

And most importantly?

He stayed close to you.

It didn’t take long for him to confirm his suspicions.

The whispers in the halls, the stolen glances between certain attendants, the way they avoided his gaze whenever he passed. Someone had been feeding you lies about him.

Twisting the truth. Painting him as a traitor.

And the final piece clicked into place when he overheard a conversation outside the grand hall.

“Has the master grown suspicious?”

“Not yet. But if that man continues to cling to them, we’ll have to push harder. The evidence is nearly ready.”

Evidence.

They think they can manipulate me?

They have no idea who they’re dealing with.

He had to move carefully.

But even knowing what he knew, he still miscalculated.

Sunday had been following the movements of one of the suspicious attendants, gathering clues, trying to find solid proof before he confronted you—

When he felt the cold press of a blade against his throat.

“You should have stayed in your place.”

The blade sliced.

𝑺𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒎 𝑨𝒍𝒆𝒓𝒕: 𝑷𝒍𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒓 𝑯𝒂𝒔 𝑫𝒊𝒆𝒅.

-Last chance-

Sunday woke up shaking.

This was it. One life left.

The moment he was revived, he went straight to you.

He didn’t wait for the lies to spread again. Didn’t wait for another chance to be stabbed in the dark.

He had to make you listen. So when he found you in your private study, brow furrowed over a new report, Sunday did something he had never done before.

He dropped to his knees.

“What are you—?”

“Someone has been feeding you false information about me.”

“What?”

“I don’t know who exactly is behind it, but I have proof that some of the palace attendants have been manipulating you,” he said, voice low and urgent. “I’ve overheard them talking. The whispers in the halls. The fabricated ‘evidence’ against me.”

“Tell me,” he said, “what did they show you?”

You hesitated.

Your fingers tightened over the report in your hands.

Sunday saw the conflict in your eyes, the way your mind worked behind that carefully unreadable expression.

For weeks, he had been watching you—learning you. Every minute change in your stance, the flicker of your gaze when something unsettled you. And now?

You were unsettled.

Good.

That meant he was getting somewhere.

“Tell me, then.” Your voice was composed, but he could hear the tension beneath it. “What do you think I saw?”

“Something that made me look like a traitor.”

He pressed on.

“Documents with my forged signature? Secret meetings I never attended?” His voice lowered. “Maybe even an intercepted message—words twisted just enough to convince you that I had been plotting against you all along.”

Sunday exhaled slowly. “You didn’t question it because it made sense, didn’t it?” He tilted his head, a bitter smile playing on his lips. “Because I’ve always been your biggest obstacle. Because I’ve always been the one who stood against you.”

You didn’t answer. But you didn’t deny it, either.

He needed to tread carefully. One wrong move, and you could still see him as a threat.

“But even after all that… you let me stay by your side.” He tilted his head, watching your reaction. “Why?”

“You were useful.”

“Liar”

Sunday sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look. You don’t trust me. Fine. But at least trust yourself.” His voice softened. “Think about it, really think about it—was there ever a time I actually betrayed you?”

Sunday leaned back slightly, voice steady as he gave his final push. “If you still want to kill me after thinking it through, then do it.”

You stared at him.

Seconds passed.

Then, your fingers loosened over the report in your hands.

You set it down.

“…Who?”

“Let me find out.”

And this time, he wouldn’t die before getting his answer.

For the first time in weeks, Sunday wasn’t lurking in the shadows or biting his tongue. No, this time, he moved freely.

You hadn’t explicitly told him to investigate, but by not ordering him to stop, you had given him permission.

And he would take full advantage of that.

Sunday wasn’t stupid. The moment he started looking too closely, his enemies would know.

So he laid a trap. He spread a rumor. A whisper in the halls, planted through a careless slip to an eavesdropping maid:

“The master is growing suspicious.”

It took less than a day for the rats to scurry.

Late into the night, Sunday followed a group of attendants as they snuck through the palace corridors, slipping into a secluded study.

He pressed against the wall, listening.

“The fool is still alive.”

Kristiana.

Your former best friend.

“No matter. The next attempt will not fail” she continued. “Their trust in him is wavering, but it is not broken. We must strike before it is too late.”

A second voice—one of your high-ranking advisors—spoke up. “Then we must act now. The documents are already prepared. A few words from our informant and the master will be forced to execute him. This time, there will be no hesitation.”

So that’s how they did it.

Forcing your hand. Setting you up so that killing him was the only logical choice.

He stepped into the dimly lit room, the flickering candlelight casting long shadows.

“Do you take me for a fool?”

The room fell silent.

Kristiana’s eyes widened before narrowing. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He let out a soft chuckle. “I shouldn’t be alive either, and yet, here I am.” His gaze flicked over the forged documents on the table, then back to her. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

The advisor paled. “You have no proof—”

“I don’t need proof, because you’re going to confess.”

Kristiana scoffed. “And why would we do that?”

“Because,” he murmured, taking a slow step forward, “I am still standing here.”

“And that means I know exactly what you’ve done.”

Sunday let the silence stretch before delivering the final blow:

“I wonder what will happen when I tell the master.”

Kristiana was a skilled manipulator, but even the most cunning fox could be outplayed. Still, Kristiana wasn’t the type to surrender without a fight.

“You assume Y/N will believe you.”

“I don’t assume. I know.”

Kristiana clicked her tongue, fingers twitching toward the hidden dagger at her belt.

“Let me guess. This is the part where you try to silence me?”

He didn’t give her the chance.

Before her blade could even leave its sheath, guards swarmed the room.

Her face twisted in shock as soldiers restrained her, yanking the weapon from her grasp.

Sunday turned, finally meeting your gaze as you stepped into the room.

You weren’t looking at him, though.

You were looking at Kristiana.

“…Why?”

Kristiana let out a breathless laugh. “You still don’t get it?” Her smile was sharp. “I was never going to let you win.”

“Take her away.”

[Favorability +20]

For the first time since entering this world, Sunday saw the notification appear.

All this time, he had been serving you, watching you, following you. He had given you his loyalty, his time, even his own life. And yet, only now, after clearing out the people who poisoned your ears, did the game decide to acknowledge his efforts?

Still, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he watched you.

You had been silent since Kristiana was taken away. You stood there, alone in the now-empty study, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

“…You were right”

Sunday blinked. “What?”

“About Kristiana. About the lies.” Your jaw clenched. “About me being too blind to see it.”

“…You trusted her,” he said simply. “It wasn’t stupid.”

“It was careless.”

“No. It was human.”

[Favorability +10]

This time, he really did laugh.

Your eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

For the first time since Sunday entered this world, things were peaceful.

Kristiana was gone. The whispers had died down.

And you stopped looking at him with suspicion.

You still didn’t fully trust him, but that was fine.

Because you let him stay.

He continued to serve you, just like before.

When you were tired, you didn’t push him away when he set down a cup of tea beside you.

When he disappeared for a few hours, you caught yourself wondering where he had gone.

[Favorabiliy +5]

It was slow.

But it was happening.

Of course, he knew this peace wouldn’t last forever.

Kristiana might be gone, but her knowing smile haunted the back of his mind.

Something else was coming. The true storm. And Sunday would be ready.

The palace halls were silent.

The mourning drapes hung heavy over the grand windows, blocking out the golden light of dawn. Even the servants moved quietly, their usual whispers and hurried footsteps replaced by a solemn stillness.

Your father was gone.

The weight of it pressed down on you like an iron chain.

He had held on as long as he could. Even in his final hours, he had smiled at you—his tired eyes filled with warmth, his hand resting weakly over yours.

“You will be alright.”

His last words echoed in your mind.

But you weren’t.

You could barely eat. Barely drink. Barely breathe.

The world around you blurred. People came and went, offering condolences, yet their voices were distant, as if muffled by water.

And through it all—

Sunday remained.

----

You didn’t see it. Didn’t notice the way Sunday silently turned away envoys, nobles, and officials, intercepting their letters before they could reach your hands. Marriage proposals. Political alliances disguised as heartfelt offers. Opportunists circling like vultures, waiting for the moment your grief would make you vulnerable.

Sunday burned them all.

Every request. Every demand. Every veiled attempt at stealing you away.

They didn’t deserve you.

And if anyone thought they could force your hand—

Well.

They would have to go through him.

-----

The night was cold.

You sat by your father’s desk, the candlelight flickering against the tear-stained letters before you.

You hadn’t touched the meal that had been left for you.

“You need to eat.”

You didn’t respond.

He stepped closer. Gently, he placed a cup of warm broth beside you, the steam curling into the air.

Still, you didn’t move.

“…He wouldn’t want you to waste away like this.”

For a moment, Sunday thought you would ignore him again.

But then, slowly, you reached for the cup. The broth sat warm in your hands, but you barely tasted it. It was just something to do. A distraction. A meaningless action to appease Sunday so he wouldn’t pester you further.

You had expected him to leave once you took a sip.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Sunday crouched beside you, plucking a small piece of softened bread from the untouched plate.

“Here.”

“I can feed myself.”

He didn’t argue. He simply held the bread near your lips, gaze steady.

“You’ve barely eaten in days.”

Before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned forward and took a small bite.

The moment the food hit your tongue, you realized how hungry you truly were.

You had been so caught up in grief, in the crushing weight of loss, that you had ignored your own needs. But now, your body reminded you—loud and clear—that it was starving.

Sunday didn’t say anything as he picked up another piece and lifted it toward you.

And without thinking, you let him feed you.

The warmth of his fingertips, the way he wordlessly knew when to offer you water, the way his gaze never once wavered from yours.

For the first time, you actually looked at him.

He had always been there, hadn’t he? Lingering in the background, watching over you, handling things before you even had to ask.

And now, up close like this, he wasn’t that annoying.

Actually… he was— Handsome.

The thought struck you so suddenly that you nearly choked on your next bite.

Sunday blinked, brows furrowing slightly. “Careful.”

You coughed, hastily grabbing the cup of water he handed you. Heat crept up your neck, but whether it was from embarrassment or something else, you weren’t sure.

“What’s wrong? Finally realizing how charming I am?”

You shot him a glare. “Don’t push it.”

But he only chuckled, satisfied.

[Favorability +5]

You didn’t see it. The tiny, nearly imperceptible shimmer in the air—like a system notification only meant for him.

“What?” he said. “Did I get more handsome just now, or are you finally acknowledging that I’ve been devastatingly attractive this entire time?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “You’re seriously fishing for compliments while feeding me?”

“Multi-tasking is an important skill.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he plucked another piece of bread from the plate and held it up, smirking, “you’re still letting me feed you.”

You froze, only just realizing it.

You could argue, push him away, reclaim some of your dignity… but you were still hungry. And honestly, this was the first real conversation you’d had since your father passed.

…It was nice.

So instead of answering, you simply huffed and took another bite, avoiding his gaze.

“You know, if I had known all it took was feeding you to make you behave, I would’ve done this ages ago.”

“I take it back. You’re annoying.”

“Too late. You already let me in.”

-----

Sunday should have been pleased.

You were recovering. You were finally eating, standing tall once more, resuming the duties your father left behind. He had worked for this. Stayed by your side through the worst of it. Protected you, fed you, shielded you from the opportunistic nobles who sought to take advantage of your grief.

And now?

Now you were back to work.

And he hated it.

Not because he wanted you to remain weak—no, he would never wish that on you. But because now, he had less control. Before, when you were withdrawn in your chambers, he was the one managing things. The one turning away suitors, handling your food, ensuring your safety without question.

But now?

Now you were surrounded by people. Officials, nobles, potential threats.

And worst of all—

You were talking to them. Laughing with them. Standing too close to them.

Sunday’s fingers twitched as he watched from the shadows of the court hall.

He couldn’t stand this.

His jaw clenched as he watched you tilt your head toward one of your advisors, listening intently to whatever nonsense they were feeding you.

You weren’t even aware of it, were you? How vulnerable you were in moments like these.

What if someone whispered poison into your ear? What if they sought to turn you against him?

His mind spun with all the possibilities—his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface—

And then, a soft chime.

A faint glow only he could see.

𝑺𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕 𝑹𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒆 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒔: 𝑼𝒏𝒍𝒐𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅

Favorability: 40%

40%. It had never been this high before.

But if he had learned anything from playing this game before—

40% wasn’t enough.

Sunday’s mind was already calculating his next move when another chime echoed in his ears.

[System Assistance Available]

His eyes widened slightly. Since when?

Before, the system only interfered when he died. It never offered him anything—no guidance, no tools, nothing. But now?

He focused on the faint glow only he could see, willing the system to respond.

[Query Registered: Assistance Requested]

A loading screen flickered in his vision before a new window appeared.

[Available Items – Secret Route]

Whispering Veil – Conceals the user’s actions from others for a limited time. (1 use)

Falsified Letters – Alters the contents of incoming messages before they reach the recipient. (3 uses)

Echo Crystal – Records and replays conversations to the user. (1 use)

Subtle Influence – Temporarily shifts favorability by +5% in a critical moment. (1 use)

Locking Key – Prevents an individual from leaving a designated area for 12 hours. (1 use)

These were cheats. This world had been working against him for so long, making every step toward you a battle. But now?

Now he had weapons.

The Falsified Letters were already useful. How many proposals had he secretly turned down for you? With these, he wouldn’t have to intercept them—he could alter them entirely.

The Echo Crystal was perfect. He would find out exactly what these scheming nobles were saying to you behind his back.

But the Subtle Influence?

Sunday’s fingers twitched.

A guaranteed +5%?

It took him months to raise your favorability even this much. He could get closer right now.

…But no.

Not yet.

[Item Acquired: Echo Crystal]

Let’s see what these people were really saying.

Sunday gripped the Echo Crystal in his palm, feeling the faint warmth of its magic pulse against his skin.

Slipping out of sight, he activated the crystal. A shimmer of light pulsed from its surface before fading, leaving only a soft hum in his ears.

“We need to act soon.”

Sunday’s eyes narrowed.

The voice was familiar—one of the noble councilmen, Lord Arventis. A well-spoken official who had spent the past weeks pretending to be loyal to you.

Another voice joined in, one that sent a sharp chill through his spine.

Kristiana.

“Y/n's regaining their strength” she murmured. “If we don’t secure their hand in marriage or weaken their standing, soon they'll become untouchable.”

Sunday’s fingers curled tight around the crystal.

These leeches. These pathetic, scheming rats.

They weren’t just trying to manipulate you anymore.

They were planning to seize control.

Sunday exhaled, slipping the crystal into his sleeve as he stepped out from the shadows.

He needed a plan.

And this time?

He wasn’t playing fair.

It took two days.

Two days of watching, listening, gathering proof.

Every word spoken behind your back, every noble secretly conspiring against you—Sunday had it all.

And now?

Now, it was time to remove the pieces from the board.

One by one, carefully, subtly.

The Falsified Letters were the first to be used.

Kristiana? Lord Arventis? The others who sought to control you?

Every letter they sent—every request for a private meeting, every false plea of loyalty—was altered.

You never saw their real words.

Instead, what you received were poorly veiled insults. Demands. Mockery disguised as diplomacy.

Your anger was immediate.

Within hours, you had your court questioning their intentions.

Within a day, Lord Arventis had lost your favor.

And Kristiana?

Her carefully woven web of deception began to unravel.

Sunday watched it all unfold with quiet satisfaction.

When you looked at him that evening, your gaze lingering just a little too long—

Sunday saw it.

That flicker of realization.

That first, fragile crack in your walls. He didn’t need the system to tell him this time. You were finally seeing him.

Sunday had been waiting for the right moment.

The Locking Key wasn’t something to use carelessly. It was a tool meant for control, for ensuring that no one could interfere with what was about to happen.

It happened without warning. The door, which had been perfectly fine just moments ago, let out a soft click.

You frowned, standing up to test the handle, only for it to remain firmly shut. “…Strange.”

Sunday, who had been silently refilling your tea, glanced up in feigned curiosity. “Something wrong?”

You jiggled the handle again. “The door isn’t opening.”

His lips parted in mock surprise. “Oh?”

You turned to face him, your exhaustion making you more irritable than usual. “Did you do something?”

He blinked at you, the perfect picture of innocence. “Why would I lock us in?”

“Then what, the palace just decided to trap me here?”

He hummed in thought. “Maybe it’s fate.”

You shot him a glare, but deep down, you knew there was no use fighting it. You were tired—too tired—and the energy to argue with him simply wasn’t there.

The weight of the past few days had finally caught up to you. The grief, the stress, the endless work… it was pressing down on your chest, your body begging for rest.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you brought them to your temple.

Sunday noticed immediately.

“Sit” he murmured.

You resisted. “I’m fine.”

“You can barely stand.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could, something shifted. A strange warmth settled in your mind—a pull, a quiet lure, almost like… magic. It was subtle, like a whisper, telling you that you should just listen to him. That for once, you could stop fighting.

Your legs moved before you could think.

You collapsed into the nearest seat, but the hard wooden chair was uncomfortable, your body aching as you tried to relax.

Sunday sighed. “You’ll never rest like that.”

He moved forward, taking the empty space beside you—no, not beside. Right behind.

Before you could react, his hands were on your arms, guiding you gently but insistently. “Come here.”

Your breath hitched. “What—”

He pulled you onto his lap.

You should’ve moved. But your exhaustion made you weak, and your body—traitorous, selfish—sank into him instead.

His warmth seeped into your skin, his steady breathing oddly calming as your head rested against his shoulder. His fingers brushed against your wrist before settling at your back in a silent reassurance.

“…Better?” he asked softly.

You hesitated, then—reluctantly—nodded.

“You’re finally listening to me.”

You hated the way your face warmed.

[Favorability +30]

Sunday felt the chime before he saw the number.

Thirty. Thirty?

That was insane.

Nothing he’d done before—no silent loyalty, no favors, no devotion—had ever made your favorability jump this high.

He had expected a modest increase, maybe five or ten points at most. But this?

This was a breakthrough.

His mind raced, replaying every second leading up to this moment. The exhaustion, the quiet lure of his voice, the way you had naturally leaned into him without fighting.

And then it clicked.

You liked skinship.

Or rather, you found comfort in it.

Not that you’d ever admit it, of course. You were still too stubborn, too prideful to say it out loud. But your body?

Your body didn’t lie.

It was something subconscious, something deeply ingrained in you that even you didn’t seem aware of.

All this time, he had been carefully balancing between too much and too little, afraid of pushing his luck. And yet, the answer had been right in front of him—literal physical closeness.

Of course, he couldn’t abuse it recklessly. You were quick to irritation, your temper flaring if someone overstepped.

But if he did it right…

If he played this carefully…

Then he had just unlocked his greatest weapon.

His arms tightened around you slightly, as if testing the waters, but he didn’t push further. For now, he let you rest against him, let you trust him.

And when your breathing evened out, when the tension in your muscles melted completely, Sunday only smiled to himself.

Checkmate.

----

The next morning, when you drowsily shuffled into the dining hall, he was already there, waiting. He handed you a steaming cup of tea, but instead of simply setting it down, he took your hand in his, guiding your fingers around the cup.

[Favorability +5]

A test—and a success.

You barely reacted, too groggy to care. But it worked.

At midday, when you were busy drafting letters and reviewing reports, he appeared by your side with an ink-stained cloth.

Without a word, he took your hand and gently wiped the smudge off your fingers.

You stiffened for a second but didn’t pull away.

[Favorability +7]

And so, the pattern continued.

Each day, a small touch here, a silent act there. Never enough to raise suspicion, never enough to cross a line, but just enough to nudge you closer.

[Favorability +2]

At 84%, you had stopped questioning him.

At 87%, you had stopped fighting it.

And now?

90%.

The notification chimed in his ears.

You still didn’t notice.

But he did.

And now, the only thing left to do…

Was push you past the threshold.

---

Sunday had been playing the game well. He had spent days getting closer, learning your preferences, adjusting his every move to keep you comfortable while steadily increasing your favorability.

But what he didn’t know—what he never could have anticipated—was that the more you grew attached to him…

The more possessive you became.

It wasn’t obvious at first. A lingering glance here, an oddly fixated stare there.

Then it got worse.

And today?

Today, you were seething.

You stared at Sunday across the dining table, your fingers gripping the silverware a little too tightly as you cut into your meal.

He was being too calm.

Like he had nothing to be guilty for.

“So.”

Sunday barely looked up from his plate. “So?”

“I heard you were with the maid today.”

He paused for a fraction of a second before responding. “…I was.”

That made your grip tighten.

You placed your utensils down with a little too much force. “You were seen with her at the market.”

His brows furrowed slightly, but his expression remained composed. “She was just getting supplies. I needed to ask about—”

“Flowers?” you cut in, your tone sharp.

His lips parted in realization. “…You’re upset.”

“I’m not upset,” you lied. “I’m simply asking why my personal servant was out shopping for flowers with another woman.”

Sunday stared at you, and for the first time in a long time, you saw the faintest flicker of uncertainty in his gaze.

You weren’t supposed to be like this.

You weren’t supposed to care.

But you did.

Because the way you felt at that moment—the way your blood boiled at the idea of him entertaining someone else, at the thought of him being kind to someone that wasn’t you—it was irrational. Terrifyingly so.

“…You think I was flirting?”

“Wasn’t it?”

Something flickered in his gaze before he let out a small breath. Then, he placed his utensils down and leaned forward.

“Look at me.”

“If I wanted to flirt, don’t you think you’d be the first to know?”

You should have let it go.

You should have brushed it off, laughed, changed the subject.

But instead, you found yourself gripping the edge of the table, voice quiet but trembling with something unfamiliar. “…Then don’t do it.”

Sunday’s smirk faltered.

For the first time, he saw it.

The hint of something deeper in your eyes.

This wasn’t just a favorability boost anymore.

This was dangerous.

And for the first time…

He wasn’t sure who was hunting who.

[Favorability: 96%] → [Favorability: 94%]

Why?

He had been so careful, every action calculated, every touch measured. You were supposed to be getting closer, not slipping away.

Just as he was about to summon the system, a knock echoed through his room, followed by the soft creak of the door opening.

“Who were you talking to?”

For a split second, panic clawed at his chest, but he forced himself to relax, plastering on his usual lazy smirk.

“Talking? I was just thinking out loud.” He leaned back, stretching as if nothing was wrong. “Why? Miss me already?”

Your eyes didn’t waver.

“…Let’s go for a walk.”

Sunday blinked. “…A walk?”

You nodded, stepping further inside. “You’ve been inside all day, haven’t you? A change of atmosphere would be good.”

His mind raced. He needed answers from the system—but with you watching him like a hawk, there was no way he could summon it now.

“…Fine.” He stood, brushing himself off. “But if this is some elaborate scheme to make me carry all your shopping bags, I’ll protest.”

You scoffed. “As if I’d waste your time with something so trivial.”

(But if it meant keeping you outside longer, he wouldn’t have minded.)

The air was cool, a soft breeze brushing against the streets as you and Sunday wandered through the bustling town. You had led him to a small ice cream stand, insisting that since it was his first time out in a while, he should try something sweet.

Sunday wasn’t really one for desserts, but the moment he saw the way your eyes lit up as you tasted yours, he found himself taking a bite of his own without complaint.

“What do you think?”

Sunday tapped his chin, pretending to ponder. “Hmm… tastes better than I expected.”

You rolled your eyes. “You could just say you like it, you know.”

“And give you the satisfaction of being right?” He smirked. “Never.”

You huffed, taking another bite of your own, and he had to force himself to look away before he stared too long.

Then, it happened.

You took a step forward—and slipped.

Sunday’s body reacted before he could think.

In an instant, his arm snaked around your waist, pulling you against him just before you could hit the ground.

The ice cream you had been holding slipped from your grip, landing pathetically on the pavement, but neither of you reacted to it.

Because at that moment, you were way too close.

Your face was inches from his, your breath warm against his skin.

Your hands had instinctively grabbed onto his chest, fingers curling slightly into the fabric. You weren’t moving away.

[Favorability +3]

“…You okay?”

Sunday swallowed, forcing himself to breathe.

He was the one who caught you—so why did it feel like he was the one about to fall?

Sunday wasn’t sure how long he held you like that.

Seconds? Minutes?

It didn’t matter.

Because all he could focus on was the warmth of your body against his, the way your breath hitched slightly as you realized how close you were.

Your hands were still resting against his chest, fingers lightly curled into the fabric of his clothes. His arm, firm and unmoving, remained around your waist, securing you in place.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

“…Are you going to let me go?”

“Do you want me to?”

Your lips parted slightly, your gaze flickering down to where his fingers pressed into your side, then back up to his eyes.

You didn’t answer.

And he didn’t need you to.

His other hand lifted instinctively, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face.

Sunday had spent so long trying to read you, to predict your reactions, to find ways to win you over. But right now?

You were looking at him like you were the one figuring him out.

Slowly, your hand slid up from his chest to rest lightly against his collarbone. The touch was hesitant but intentional.

You weren’t pushing him away.

If anything, you were leaning in.

His grip around you tightened slightly as his gaze flickered to your lips. He could kiss you right now.

And then—

“Ah! Your Grace!”

Both of you froze.

Sunday barely had time to react before someone practically materialized beside you, bowing so quickly they almost fell over.

“It’s an honor to see you again! Thank you for your generosity the other day—our village has been thriving because of your kindness!”

Your entire body went rigid.

Sunday could feel the way your muscles tensed, your hands jerking away from him like you had just realized what was happening.

The warmth disappeared.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

You coughed, taking an awkward step back. “Ah, yes. Of course. I’m…glad to hear that.”

Sunday clenched his jaw, forcing himself to exhale slowly.

He turned his head slightly—only to see you blushing.

Not just a small, embarrassed flush—a full-on, heated, flustered mess.

Sunday blinked.

You? Blushing? Over him?

His heart nearly stopped.

And that was before he felt the warmth creeping up his own neck.

His ears burned.

You glanced at him briefly, eyes darting away almost immediately when you realized he was already looking at you.

Sunday almost cursed out loud. Instead, he cleared his throat, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from grabbing you again. “…We should keep walking.”

You nodded way too fast. “Y-Yeah. Let’s go.”

The villager beamed, bowing once more before stepping aside.

And as the two of you walked off—still visibly flustered, still awkwardly avoiding each other’s gaze—Sunday let out a small breath.

Maybe that damn favorability bar was a nightmare to raise.

But right now?

He didn’t even need to check it to know that something between you had changed.

Sunday woke up with an immediate sense of wrongness.

For one—his arms didn’t move.

For two—his legs didn’t move.

For three—you were straddling him.

He blinked, slowly coming to terms with his predicament. His wrists were tied to the bedposts. His ankles were similarly restrained. And above him, sitting comfortably atop his waist, you were smirking down at him.

“…I must still be dreaming”

You chuckled. “Oh, you’re awake? That’s good. I was starting to think you were just pretending.”

Sunday squinted at you. “Why. Am I. Tied up.”

You shrugged, tilting your head in mock innocence. “I thought I’d do something different today. Y’know, entertain you.”

His lips parted, a dumbfounded expression flickering over his face.

Entertain him.

He was seconds away from losing his mind.

Your fingers drummed along his chest, your weight warm and solid against him. “You seem awfully close with the maids these days. I thought perhaps… I should remind you where your loyalties lie.”

Sunday stared.

“Excuse me?”

You smiled, leaning in slightly.

The warmth of your breath tickled his cheek. “You’ve been talking a lot with them, haven’t you?”

You were jealous.

The realization slammed into him like a freight train.

The hours he had spent gathering information—asking the maids about your favorite foods, your daily habits, your preferences—had backfired spectacularly.

And now here you were, pinning him to his own damn bed.

Sunday had never, in all his life, imagined the ‘Impossible Route’ would turn out like this.

You leaned in even closer, lips dangerously near his ear. “…You should be more careful. People might think you’re plotting something.”

His jaw clenched.

His heartbeat thundered.

You knew exactly what you were doing.

And you were enjoying every second of it.

Sunday inhaled deeply, forcing himself to remain calm. “Alright. You’ve had your fun. Now untie me.”

You hummed in thought, fingers lazily tracing the outline of his collarbone. “Mmm… I don’t know. I think I like you like this.”

Sunday's patience snapped.

In one swift motion, he flexed his wrists and ripped free of the bindings.

Before you could react, Sunday flipped you over, pinning you beneath him.

Your back hit the mattress, your wrists caught in his grip. The tables had turned.

“My turn.”

You barely had time to blink before he leaned down—and stole your lips.

Your mind went blank.

Sunday pulled back just enough to see the dazed look in your eyes, his lips still hovering over yours.

“Next time you try to trap me” he murmured, “make sure I can’t escape.”

And then—

The door swung open.

“…Oh.”

Sunday didn’t move.

You didn’t move.

The servant froze in place.

A long, suffocating silence filled the room.

“…Should I come back later?”

You shoved Sunday off of you so hard he nearly fell off the bed.

“GET OUT.”

The servant practically tripped over themselves trying to flee.

The door slammed shut.

You and Sunday sat there for a moment, staring at each other.

Your face? Completely red.

Sunday, meanwhile, simply grinned.

“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

“SHUT UP.”

You avoided him for the rest of the day.

Which, really, was adorable.

Every time Sunday entered a room, you’d suddenly be very interested in a random document or an irrelevant piece of decor. The moment his eyes met yours? Immediate retreat. He’d never seen you so utterly defeated before—it was addicting.

And that blush? That frustrated, completely flustered look?

He wanted to see more of it.

You tried to act like nothing had happened the next morning. You sat at your usual spot, drinking tea as if the past twenty-four hours hadn’t completely obliterated your composure.

Sunday casually poured himself a cup and sat across from you, resting his chin in his palm.

“So.” He smirked. “That was quite the reaction yesterday.”

You choked on your tea.

Coughing violently, you shot him a glare. “Shut up.”

“You’re not denying it?”

Finally, you set your cup down with a soft clink and exhaled sharply.

“…Fine.” You looked at him, shoulders squared, lips pressed into a thin line. “I admit it. I lost that round.”

“Round?”

“Oh, don’t play dumb.”

His grin widened. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. “…You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, here I am. Still by your side.”

You faltered. Your fingers curled slightly, as if hesitant to say what you were thinking. Sunday watched as you took a slow breath, steadying yourself.

Then, with clear reluctance, you muttered—

“…I suppose I don’t mind.”

He almost forgot how to breathe.

You weren’t looking at him, too focused on the way your tea swirled in your cup. But Sunday could see it—the faintest hint of a smile on your lips. The soft flush still lingering on your ears.

[Favorability: 100%]

His heart skipped a beat.

You finally looked back at him, eyebrow raised. “Why are you staring?”

Sunday blinked. He schooled his expression just in time, lips curling into his usual smirk.

“…No reason.”

But inside?

Inside, he knew.

He had won.

And he would never let you go.

[dazevi]

CHAPTER THREE: CAN WE PRETEND?

heart to heart series | vi x fem!reader

synopsis: you're not sure what comes over you tonight, but caught up in the moment, you make a reckless choice—one that could change everything.

content warnings: MDNI. nsfw (18+ content), angst, fluff if you squint idk, rockstar!vi, bookshop owner/writer!reader, exes to lovers, friends with benefits (kinda), sexual tension, again—vi is down bad, smut; needy sex, oral (r rec.), vi cums untouched, little bit of overstimulation, idk what else !!!

wc: 12,183

notes: happy late late late valentine’s day! (i was supposed to post it on friday but got busy) and sorry for the wait on this chapter! here it is—glorious smut lmfao,, kind of ashamed to say that the next chapter is way more smutty—but ofc with feelings!!!) fanart by bunimint_ on ig !!

navigation | series masterlist | previous chapter

The cold bites at your skin, but you barely even notice it. Not with the way your heart is hammering. Not with the way your nerves are tangled in your stomach. You stand outside Vander’s bar holding a small birthday gift in your hands, staring at the entrance like you haven’t walked through those doors countless times before.

But it’s been years. A lifetime ago, it feels like.

And standing here now, dressed in a pretty black dress you spent way too long debating over—god, what the hell were you thinking?

You tug your jacket tighter around you, like that will somehow make you feel less exposed, less like you’re making a mistake by being here. The leather is warm, but it doesn’t do much to muffle the voice in your head telling you that this was a bad idea.

That coming here, looking like this, feeling like this—it means something.

You used to love this place. Loved the way it always smelled of whiskey and smoke, of cheap beer but distinctly of home.

It’s different now.

Or maybe you’re the one that’s different.

Vi is probably already in there. Maybe she’s backstage, laughing with the band, tuning her guitar, oblivious to the fact that you’re standing out here like a fool, trying to gather the courage to step inside. Maybe she’s already seen you through the window, watching like she always used to—like she could read every thought in your head without you saying a word.

You close your eyes for a second, exhaling slowly. You could still turn around. You don’t have to go in. But then again, you didn’t have to dress up either, and yet… here you are.

The second you step inside, the warmth surrounds you. You hadn’t expected this many people, but clearly, word must have spread that Vi’s band was playing tonight.

Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim lighting over the packed room. It’s overwhelming at first—the volume of voices overlapping, the clinking of glasses, the scrape of barstools against worn wooden floors. But then, beneath all of it, you hear Benzo’s boisterous voice cutting through the noise, followed by Vander’s throaty laughter.

It’s been years since you’ve been here, but nothing has really changed. The same old neon signs flicker against the brick walls, the dartboard near Vander’s glowing jukebox is still crooked, the pool table in the corner still missing a chunk from one of its legs, and behind the bar, bottles of liquor line the shelves, arranged in the same way Vander has always kept them.

And Vi is somewhere in here.

Your stomach twists at the thought, your heartbeat quickening as you scan the crowd.

Just as you’re about to turn toward the small stage, the sound of your name cuts through the noise.

“Is that really you?”

You barely have a second to react before a blur of blue rushes toward you, and suddenly, Powder is there, beaming up at you with wide, disbelieving eyes.

She looks different—older, maybe a tad bit taller—but the same excitement, the same energy, radiates off of her like it always has. Her hair is longer now, pulled back into two twin buns with trimmed bangs covering her forehead.

She doesn’t wait for confirmation before throwing her arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

“Oh my god, it is you!” she laughs against your shoulder, squeezing you tighter. “I can’t believe it! When Vi said you might come tonight, I didn’t think—I mean, I hoped—but holy shit!”

You let out a breathy laugh, arms instinctively wrapping around her. It’s been years since you’ve seen her—since she left for college, since everything with Vi fell apart—but somehow, it feels like no time has passed at all.

When she finally pulls back, she holds you at arm’s length, her hands gripping your shoulders as she looks you over, like she’s trying to make sure you’re actually standing there in front of her and not some trick of the lighting.

“You look amazing,” she gushes, her eyes shining, before huffing playfully, shaking her head. “I mean, seriously—wow. Vi didn’t tell me you still looked like this. She’s soooooo in trouble.”

You blink at her words, your breath hitching slightly, but before you can even begin to unpack what that means, Powder grabs your hand, tugging you towards the bar.

“Come on, you have to catch me up,” she insists, grinning ear to ear. “How have you been? What are you doing back here? Wait, how did Vi even convince you to show up tonight?”

Your lips part, but you hesitate, glancing toward the stage. You still haven’t seen Vi yet, but now, with Powder in front of you, talking a mile a minute, you realize just how much you’ve missed this—her.

“Powder, slow down,” you laugh, grinning from ear to ear as you shake your head. “It’s really good to see you too.”

She beams, squeezing your hand once before looping her arm through yours like she used to when you were all younger.

“Dad, look who’s here!” Powder calls out, cutting through the music and chatter as she drags you toward the bar.

Vander stands behind the counter, just like he always used to, one large hand resting on the counter, the other holding a glass he’s in the middle of drying. He looks up at Powder’s voice, eyes darting toward the two of you.

His lips curve into something between a smile and a look of pure surprise. He sets the glass down, wiping his hands on a bar towel as he steps around the counter.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Vander murmurs, taking you in. His voice is just as you remember it—gruff but warm. “Look who finally decided to show her face.”

“Hi, Vander,” you say, your voice softer than you mean it to be.

He huffs out a chuckle, shaking his head before pulling you into a firm hug.

“You don’t gotta be shy, kid,” he says, patting your back like he used to when you were just a teenager sitting at this very bar, waiting for Vi to finish whatever dumb stunt she was getting up to. “Hell, it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” you murmur.

When he pulls back, he looks you over, eyes full of something fond.

“You look good,” he says, before glancing at Powder with a smirk. “She givin’ you trouble yet?”

You laugh, shaking your head as Powder scoffs, crossing her arms. “Me? Trouble? Never.”

Vander chuckles, ruffling her hair before looking back at you with that same fatherly warmth that makes your chest ache.

“Vi’s gonna lose her damn mind when she sees you.”

And just like that, your heart flutters all over again.

Vander studies you for a moment, his gaze settling on yours like he can hear every thought running through your head. But he doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. Instead, he gives you one last reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before nodding toward the bar.

“Well, since you’re here, let me get you a drink,” he says. “On the house. Benzo!”

Powder grins, practically bouncing on her boots as she gestures to the small, neatly wrapped gift in your hands.

“Come on, I’ll put that gift over with the others!” she chirps, already reaching for it before you can protest.

The chatter dies down slightly as movement stirs toward the stage, conversations dipping into hushed murmurs. People turn their attention forward, waiting patiently as the band gets into place.

Vi stands in the center of the stage, tuning her guitar beside an amp, fingers practiced as she twists the tuning pegs, testing each note. She’s glowing, that pink of her bright against the light, also outlining the sharp angles of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbones, the ink that winds down her arms and up the side of her neck.

She looks really fucking good. Dressed in a snug black shirt that clings just right, showing off the sculpted muscle in her arms, the broad set of her shoulders. The sleeves are pushed up slightly, just enough to expose the edge of her tattoos. Paired with a pair of baggy jeans that sit low on her hips, the waistband of her boxers showing every time her shirt shifts upward slightly as she moves—

—God, you have got to get yourself together.

But even despite how cool she looks up there, there’s a pout pressed against her lips, so slight that most people wouldn’t even notice.

But you do.

Because you’ve seen that pout before.

It’s the same one she used to wear when she was waiting for you after class and you took too long saying goodbye to your friends. The same one she had when you were late to meet her for a movie, arms crossed as she huffed dramatically before breaking into a grin the second she saw you. The same one she’d wear when you teased her by refusing to kiss her.

And now, up on stage, she’s wearing it again.

Because she hasn’t seen you yet.

You swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of yourself. Of how you look, of how this dress looks on you, of the way your heartbeat has picked up.

You shouldn’t be this affected—you shouldn’t.

And then—just as she adjusts the strap of her guitar, rolling her shoulders back, her eyes sweeping slowly over the room, over the crowd, then towards the bar—

She finds you.

Her fingers still against the strings, her whole body tensing just slightly. Her lips part, eyes locking onto yours.

And then, just like that, her pout is gone, smoothed over with the faintest, laziest smirk.

You feel your stomach flutter.

Before you can fully process it, Ekko steps up to the mic, patting Vi on the shoulder, grinning out at the crowd.

Behind them, Steb is adjusting his drum stool and Loris, stands off to the side, his bass slung low, a cigarette tucked behind his ear as he watches the crowd with that same unreadable look he always has, like none of this phases him in the slightest.

Ekko leans into the mic, flashing a charming smirk towards the crowd smirk.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” he teases, though he’s clearly reveling in the attention, in the love the crowd is throwing at them. He lets the cheers die down just a little before continuing, “First off, gotta give a huge shoutout to the man who means the absolute world to me. Happy birthday, old man!”

The bar erupts into another round of cheers, laughter echoing through the room as Benzo raises his glass.

“I love you, Benzo!” Ekko adds, placing a hand over his chest in mock sincerity.

Vi chuckles beside him, shaking her head as she ducks slightly, her pink hair falling forward as she looks down for a second.

Your stomach twists as you watch her, taking in the way her fingers flex against the neck of her guitar, the way she glances at Ekko with that lopsided smirk before finally lifting her head again, pink strands shifting as she looks back out at the crowd.

And just for a second—so brief you almost miss it—her eyes fall back to you.

Ekko claps his hands together. “Alright, enough of the mushy shit. Let’s get this started, yeah?”

And the crowd cheers again.

The music begins, the first chords ringing out as Vi’s fingers find the strings of her guitar. The sound of the crowd fades into the background as she leans into the mic.

Every time her gaze sweeps over the bar, her heart skips a beat when she catches sight of you. You’re there, standing at the edge of the crowd, watching. Watching her. And god, it makes her feel alive. She can feel the heat rising in her chest, spreading down her arms, making her fingertips tingle as she strums the next chord. She can’t stop glancing at you, her smile widening every time your gaze meets hers.

She wants to impress.

She really fucking does.

And every time Vi steals a glance your way, her heart beats faster. It’s almost like the music fades and the room shrinks down until all she can focus on is you.

You look so damn good. Your dress is simple but it fits you perfectly, so prettily. The soft glow of the stage lights catches the curve of your neck, the way your hair falls just perfectly, and god—god—she’s getting distracted.

The thought crosses her mind before she can stop it—did you dress up for her? It’s silly, of course, but it flares in her chest anyway.

But then, before she can let herself spiral too far into that thought, she sees you again.

You came. You actually came.

I mean, you told her you would, but right now, she can’t stop smiling. She’s so fucking happy you’re here.

The set ends after an hour.

It wasn’t too long, but the crowd erupts into applause anyway, cheers and shouts and whistles echoing throughout room, although Vi didn’t really think much of it. She’s still buzzing, the tips of her fingers still tingling from the friction of the strings, but she didn’t care about it.

She doesn’t wait for the others. Ekko and Loris are already heading backstage, Steb cracking his knuckles as he follows, but Vi’s eyes are locked on you.

She doesn’t even care about the after show rituals—the sweaty gear, the backroom chatter—because right now, all she can think about is how badly she wants to get to you.

It doesn’t take long to find you. You’re sitting with Powder, a bright smile on your face, talking to Vander and Benzo at the counter.

And then, when she’s just a few feet away, you look up.

She opens her mouth, trying to say something—anything—but the words won’t come. She’s not sure why she’s so nervous now.

“Hey,” she says softly as she looks down at the counter, then back up at you. “You made it.”

Her smile is soft, almost shy, and she watches you carefully, her heart is pounding in her chest.

“I told you I would,” you reply warmly.

Vi nods softly and just stands there, her heart pounding in her chest, suddenly unsure of herself, the words slipping out of her mouth before she can fully think them through.

“You look… you look really good.”

It’s quieter than she meant it to be, but it’s honest. She can’t help it. She’s been trying not to let herself be completely consumed by the way you look tonight, but there’s really no stopping it. You do look amazing.

And she watches you closely, trying not to let her nervousness show too much, but it’s hard to hide the slight tremor in her voice.

Before you can even respond, Powder bursts in, her voice high and teasing as she slides up beside Vi and throws an arm around her shoulders, nearly knocking her off balance.

“Vi!” she says, her grin practically splitting her face, as she begins to tease her in hushed whispers, something about you coming tonight, maybe how nervous she was.

But Vi doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break her gaze from you. Her attention stays completely on you, even as Powder hugs her excitedly, laughing. Her focus is elsewhere. It’s on you. It’s always been on you.

For a moment, she almost wishes it was just the two of you in this room—no distractions, no people, no laughter, no teasing from an overly excited litle sister, just you and her.

Before either of you can speak, Powder pulls away from Vi, spinning on her heel as she looks around the bar.

“Say, where’s Ekko?” she asks. “I’ve got to go give him a talk about giving Isha the wrong cat food earlier.”

Without waiting for anyone to respond, she darts off into the crowd, running on pure energy that never seems to run out. You watch her blue hair disappear into the mix of people, the playful laugh she lets out fading as she vanishes.

Vi stands there, staring at you. There’s so much she wants to say, so much she’s been holding back for what feels like forever, but the words just don’t come.

“You guys sounded really great up there,” you say gently.

Her heart skips. She blinks, almost startled, and before she can stop herself, her lips curve into a wide, genuine grin, the pride swelling in her chest. She straightens slightly, shoulders relaxing just a little as her eyes soften.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, eyes glued to the way your tongue smooths over your bottom lip. “It, uh… feels good to be playing again… Here, I mean. At home.”

You smile again, and for a second, Vi forgets how to breathe.

“I bet it does,” you say, keeping your voice light. “I mean, I would have been disappointed if you weren’t any good.”

Vi chuckles at that. “Well, I couldn’t let you down. I’ve got a reputation to maintain, after all.”

“You’re being cocky,” you raise an eyebrow at her.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she says quietly.

Vi swallows hard, trying her best to stay calm, but being with you like this, well, it catches her off guard.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” she smiles softly. “I really am.”

And she’s grateful. Very grateful that she gets to see you, to be with you like this, even though you weren’t really hers anymore.

She spent the rest of the night glued to your side like she’s afraid to let you slip away, her body leaning just a little too close whenever you’re talking to someone else.

It’s a subtle thing, the way she gravitates toward you, like there’s an invisible thread pulling her in, towards you each and every time.

Vander, Benzo, Powder, and the rest of the band surround you, laughing and teasing, recounting old stories from their countless gigs, but Vi isn’t really paying attention to any of that. Not when you’re sitting next to her, not when you’re wearing that dress.

The fabric fits your curves so perfectly, but it’s your legs that keep pulling her attention.

Every time you move slightly, every time you cross or uncross them, the way your thighs peek out, just enough to tease—Vi can’t tear her eyes away. It feels almost too much—like she’s seeing you in a way she hasn’t allowed herself to in a long time. She tries to focus on the conversations, on the laughter and the jokes being tossed around, but it’s impossible to ignore the way her body reacts every time you move right next to her, every time she catches a glimpse of your skin.

Her gaze moves back to you again, almost instinctively, and her breath catches just for a second when your eyes meet hers, that soft smile of yours playing at your lips.

“Vi,” Powder says, nudging her with an elbow. “Earth to Vi? You’ve been dozing out over there for a while.”

Vi blinks, shaking her head and forcing herself to focus on the others. She smiles, though, a little embarrassed, and laughs it off, trying to shrug it off as a joke.

“Sorry, just got distracted for a second,” she says, but her eyes dart back to you before the words are even fully out.

She can’t help it. You’ve always had that effect on her—always able to pull her in, even when you don’t mean to.

And when you laugh, when you lean forward to talk to Powder, it sends a shiver down her spine. She can’t stop herself from thinking about how much she’s missed this. How much she’s missed being with her family. How much she’s missed being with you.

Her heart beats faster in her chest.

She wants to reach out and touch you. To kiss you. To touch you in places people aren’t allowed to see. She wants to say something, but every word gets stuck in her throat.

And throughout the rest of the night, you could feel her eyes on you.

It’s not just her glances you notice, but the way her posture shifts when you move, the tension in her shoulders when she’s close to you, like she’s trying to keep herself in check, but her body betrays her every time.

It makes your heart race. You can feel her eyes on you, even when you’re not looking at her. It’s impossible to ignore. The way her attention feels so intense, the way she’s so obviously drawn to you, despite all the people around you.

And you start to wonder if coming here tonight was a good idea after all.

It’s silly, isn’t it? You came because Vi had asked you to. Because you couldn’t say no to her.

You force yourself to look away, focusing on Powder and Vander’s laughter, on Benzo’s loud voice cutting through the noise, but you can still feel it. And every time your eyes meet, she looks away just a little too quickly, like she’s afraid of being caught.

You glance at her again, and this time, she doesn’t look away quickly enough. Her eyes catch yours, and you see it clearly. Vi hasn’t really changed that much. She was still Vi. Still the girl you once loved, and maybe, in some strange way, still the girl you might love again—

God, what are you talking about?

Is that what this is?

Is that what she wants too?

You force yourself to look away, focusing back on the chatter around you.

Was this a mistake? You didn’t know that answer to that.

All you knew was that it was clear Vi wanted you.

And you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want her, too.

It gets pretty late into the night when the drinks, as light as they were, started to settle in, a warm flush spreading across your cheeks.

It’s not enough to make you drunk—nothing like that—but enough to make your limbs feel a little heavier, your eyelids a little more droopy than they were earlier in the evening.

You glance around the table, taking in the chatter of old friends, the lighthearted teasing and laughter, the way Powder is leaning into Ekko’s side while Benzo and Vander talk shop at the counter. It was soothing to be here and spending time with them.

But your body is tired, and as much as you don’t want to leave, you know it’s probably time.

You stand up slowly, feeling the slight unsteadiness in your legs, the gentle sway of the room, but you brush it off. You pull your jacket on, the cool leather against your skin reminding you of the chilly air waiting for you outside. You catch Powder’s eye, giving her a soft smile as she looks over at you, but she’s too wrapped up in a conversation with Ekko to notice how tired you’ve become.

“I should probably get going,” you say softly.

Your words are met with a series of warm and friendly goodbyes, but there’s something in the air now that you can’t ignore.

Maybe it’s the way you’ve been trying not to meet Vi’s eyes, the way you’ve felt her gaze on you all night.

But you turn to her finally and say, “Bye, Vi.”

She freezes. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, her lips parting as if she wants to say something—anything—but the words get stuck somewhere inside her all over again.

She doesn’t get anything out before you turn on your heel to walk out of the door.

Then, out of nowhere, Ekko elbows Vi lightly.

“Seriously?” he murmurs under his breath, though it’s loud enough for her to hear.

Vi blinks rapidly, snapping out of her trance, and before she can even register what’s happening, she looks up. She turns to the rest of the group, and to her surprise, the entire crew is watching her. Powder, Benzo, Vander—they’re all grinning, urging her with their eyes.

“Go!” Powder mouths.

And just like that, she just moves.

She grabs her jacket and practically runs, pushing past the tables and chairs, her heart pounding louder and louder.

But just as she reaches the door, her foot catches awkwardly on the edge something, and soon, she’s stumbling, the world tipping sideways before she crashes forward. Her head hits the doorframe with a sharp thud, and for a second, everything is disorienting.

And you hear it—the sound of Vi groaning behind you. You freeze, your heart leaping into your throat.

“Violet?!” you call out.

Vi’s still on the ground, her hand pressed against her forehead, trying to push herself up. Her face scrunches in mild discomfort, but as her eyes meet yours, she lets out a small, breathy laugh, shaking her head.

“I’m fine,” she says softly as she rubs her forehead where it collided with the doorframe.

Her eyes dart up to you, and she offers a sheepish smile. You can’t stop the small laugh that bubbles up in your throat. Your heart is still racing as you move toward her.

“Are you sure—”

“I’m okay, really,” she says again.

She reaches up, brushing her hair from her face, trying to play off the moment. You offer her your hand, your fingers brushing hers as you help her to her feet. She doesn’t let go immediately, her fingers lingering against yours for a moment longer than necessary.

“I… I wanted to catch you before you left,” Vi catches her breath. “Are you walking home?”

“Y-Yeah,” you finally say quietly. “It’s not too far.”

You motion vaguely toward the street, but it’s clear that the idea of walking back alone, in the late hour, with the chill creeping in, doesn’t sit quite right with you either.

“My truck’s at the back,” she says. “I’ll drive you.”

You blink, caught off guard for a moment. And before you can stop yourself, you start to protest, a gentle laugh slipping from your lips as you take a small step back.

“Oh, it’s fine, Vi. I don’t mind the walk. It’s not that far, really.” You try to brush it off, not wanting to be any more of a burden than you already feel like you are.

But she doesn’t let you get far.

“I’m driving you,” she repeats.

It’s not a suggestion. It’s not a question. It’s just fact.

You could argue, but there’s something about the way she looks at you, the way her eyes are so steady, so intent, that makes your inner protests feel futile.

So for once, you don’t argue.

“Fine,” you say softly, a smile tugging at the edges of your words.

Vi leads you toward the back lot where her old truck is parked, the cool night air settling over your skin as you follow a few steps behind her.

When you reach the truck, she moves ahead without hesitation, reaching for the handle and pulling the door open for you. It’s a small thing, but it catches you off guard—she does it like it’s second nature, like she’s done it a million times before. Well, she probably has.

You hesitate for a second, looking at her. Her pink hair is a little messy, strands falling over her forehead, but she doesn’t push them back. She just stands there, her hand still on the door, waiting for you.

“Thanks,” you murmur softly.

Vi just nods, not saying anything as you step up into the seat. She closes the door gently behind you, and a second later, she’s rounding the front of the truck, pulling herself into the driver’s side.

The engine stars, and Vi adjusts the rearview mirror before glancing over at you. You can tell that she has more that she wants to say, but instead, she just puts the truck into drive, her fingers flexing around the wheel before she finally pulls out of the lot.

The drive is quiet.

Not awkward, not tense—just quiet.

The road stretches ahead, the glow of streetlights passing in a blur, fleeting shadows across Vi’s face. Her jaw is set, a hand steady on the wheel, but inside the truck, everything feels so quiet.

You watch her from the corner of your eye, the way her fingers tap lightly against the wheel, the way she lets out a slow breath, like she’s thinking about something she won’t say out loud.

You shift slightly in your seat, your hands resting in your lap, feeling the warmth of the heater kicking in against your legs. You should say something—maybe thank her again, maybe fill the silence with small talk, maybe ask her again how long she’s staying in town, how long her break is, when she’s leaving again—but for some reason, you don’t.

You just sit there.

Eventually, the truck slows to a stop in front of your apartment building, the engine humming for a moment before Vi shifts into park and shutting the engine off. The street is quiet at this hour, the street lamps casting long shadows across the sidewalk, everything outside the window felt frozen.

She doesn’t say anything at first, just grips the wheel, her fingers flexing slightly before she finally moves, unbuckling her seatbelt.

Before you can protest—before you can even tell her that she doesn’t have to—she’s already stepping out, rounding the front of the truck with long strides. She opens your door for you again, and when you step down, you can feel how warm she is, close enough that you have to force yourself not to lean into it.

Then, she walks you up to your apartment door, taking the elevator, her steps slower now, like she’s drawing out the last few moments before she has to leave.

You fish your keys out of your bag, fingers brushing over the familiar metal as you try to ignore the way your heart is beating too fast.

But Vi… she just watches.

She’s standing a step behind you, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, her body tense like she’s holding herself back from something.

And she is.

Because she doesn’t want to leave.

Not when she’s spent the entire night thinking about you, stealing glances at you across the bar, admiring how the lighting made your skin glow, how your lips curled into that gorgeous smile she fell in love with—that she’s still in love with. Not when you looked so damn good in that dress, when all she’s wanted, since the second she saw you tonight, was to touch you, to press her lips against yours and see if you’d melt into her the way you used to.

Not when she still wants you.

But she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

She just stares, her jaw clenched slightly, her pink hair falling into her face as she tilts her head down, eyes darting between your face and your hands as you struggle with the keys.

She should say something. She should tell you goodnight, make some stupid joke to break the tension, turn and walk away before she does something reckless. Because every single part of her is screaming at her to stay, to close the space between you, to reach out and touch you the way she’s been dying to all night. To press you against that door and kiss you until she forgets where she ends and you begin.

She just bites the inside of her cheek, waiting—hoping—you’ll give her a reason not to go.

You finally find the right key, fingers brushing over the familiar grooves, you slot it into the door but you don’t turn it just yet.

Vi hasn’t moved, hasn’t said anything, and when you glance up at her, she’s still staring—not in an absentminded way… No, she’s simply watching you, like she’s trying to memorize every single detail.

Your throat feels tight, but you push through it, offering her a soft smile, one that feels a little shy.

“Thank you for inviting me out tonight,” you say quietly.

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” she murmurs, almost hushed. “I—”

She stops, exhales through her nose, rubs a hand against the back of her neck before shaking her head, like she’s sorting through whatever thoughts are running wild in her head.

“I wanted you to come.”

You don’t know what to say to that, not when she’s looking at you like this, like she means it, like tonight actually mattered to her.

You swallow, gripping your keys a little tighter, trying to ignore the way your fingers tremble slightly.

“Still,” you say softly, meeting her gaze. “It was… nice.”

She looks at you like she wants to say more, like there’s so much more left to be said between you two, but she doesn’t say it.

Instead, she just nods, stepping just a fraction closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off her, close enough that if you tilted your chin just slightly, you’d be right there—right within reach.

And for the first time tonight, you realize you don’t want to step away.

Vi moves slightly, her hands still buried in the pockets of her jacket, like she’s physically stopping herself from reaching out. But her eyes tell a different story. They flicker over your face, down to your lips for the briefest second before settling back on yours.

“I… I wanna see you again,” she says quietly, almost desperately.

You freeze, the key still in your hand, but now the door feels so far away. Vi’s voice rings in your ears, and as you stand there, your mind spins.

You know what she means by those words.

You’ve already been seeing her as the weeks go by. As a friend—she came in to help with your bookshop, invited you out tonight. And now—now she’s expecting something more with you.

And you’re scared of that. Terrified, actually.

You can’t do this again. You won’t survive it.

You’ve lived through her absence, through the silence, through the distance. You’ve been holding your breath for years. You’ll expect her to leave the same way she did, promising you she’ll never forget you, that she’ll come home soon, she’ll call. You’ve already lived through it.

And soon, she’ll be leaving again. Once her break is over, she’ll be gone.

And whatever she wanted build with you now, you expect all of that to be gone the moment she is.

“Vi… I’ve been thinking about it for a while now… and I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, almost as if you’re talking to yourself, trying to convince yourself that this is the right decision. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t look at her as you speak, afraid that if you do, you’ll see the hope in her eyes, and it will break you.

Vi’s heart sinks at your words. But she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t argue.

Instead, she stands there, eyes locked onto the side of your face, refusing to let the space between you become any bigger than it already is.

She wants to say something—wants to convince you, to make you see that this time could be different, that she can be different.

But the words won’t come. They’re stuck somewhere inside her, tangled up with the fear of losing you again, with the ache of wanting you close, even knowing that you might not feel the same.

So instead of speaking, she just stands there, her hands still in her pockets, her chest rising and falling with every shallow breath she takes. Her gaze never wavers from yours, even as it breaks her inside to see the hesitation in your eyes. She doesn’t want to push. She doesn’t want to make it harder for you.

But god, she wants to be near you.

She wants you so fucking bad.

She wants you to say yes.

The lump in your throat feels like it’s made of stone as you swallow. Your hands tremble slightly as you stand there, staring at the door, tears already threatening to roll down your cheeks.

You can feel her eyes on you, searching, waiting for something, and you know—you know that she’s holding onto the edge of whatever this is.

But you can’t do this.

So, you say it quickly, almost too quickly.

“Goodnight, Vi.”

You can hear the hesitation in your own voice, the way it cracks just a little, as if you’re trying to make the decision for both of you.

You don’t wait for her to reply. You don’t give her the chance to stop you, to pull you back into her. You push the door open just a little more and step inside, slamming it behind you.

On the other side of the door, Vi stands completely still. She doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, just stares at the space where you were. Her heart is pounding, your words still burning in her chest, but she doesn’t turn away. She doesn’t walk away. She stays in place, her eyes glued to the spot where you had been standing, as if she’s waiting for you to come back.

The sound of your footsteps on the other side of the door is faint, but it might as well be a symphony in her ears. Her hand reaches up slowly to knock, almost without thinking, like she’s trying to hold onto the last of the warmth that came from being so close to you, from having you near her again.

But it’s only cold now.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, doesn’t know how much time passes as she waits, hoping—just for a moment—that you might open the door again, that you might step back out and say that it wasn’t over, that it was just a misunderstanding.

But the longer she stands there, the more she realizes how hopeless that hope is, how much she’s already lost.

She almost turns on her heel to leave, the cold night air pressing in on her, but then—then—the sound of the door opening again stops her in her tracks.

You’re standing in the doorway.

For a split second, she doesn’t know what to expect. Her heart skips, and the breath she was holding catches in her throat.

“H-Hey,” Vi breathes out, her eyes widening. “Are you—”

Then, you move quickly, almost. You step up to her, and before Vi can make sense of it all, your hands are on her shoulders, and you’re standing on your tiptoes, and before she can breathe, before she can even think, your lips are on hers.

And holy fuck. Holy. Fuck. Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck holy— Is she dreaming? Are you really kissing her right now? Or did she really hit her head that hard?

Vi’s whole body freezes at first. It’s quick, but it’s enough to make her world tilt on its axis. She’s barely aware of what’s happening, of how she instinctively wraps her arms around you, pulling you closer. Her hands find their way to your waist, holding you gently.

She doesn’t want to pull away. She doesn’t want to let go of of you, not when it feels like you’ve come back to her. Her arms tighten around you, and she groans into your mouth, feeling the warmth of your body press against hers like she’s trying to make sure you’re really here.

Vi doesn’t think—she doesn’t have time to.

The second your lips press back into hers, everything else fades and she cant see anything else but you. She deepens the kiss, her hands squeezing roughly at your waist, pulling you impossibly close like she’s afraid you might slip through her fingers again if she lets even an inch of space come between you.

You respond just as eagerly, softly moaning into against her lips, your fingers fisting into the fabric of her jacket, pulling her forward like you can’t stand the distance either. Your body presses into hers, soft where she’s firm, delicate where she’s rough, and it only makes her want you more.

The kiss turns messy—more tongue, more teeth, like neither of you can get enough.

Vi doesn’t realize she’s walking forward until she feels you stumble slightly, your hands gripping onto her arms for balance. She guides you backwards, step by step, her lips never leaving yours as she pushes you back into your apartment. And with one firm kick of her foot, the door swings shut behind you both.

The moment the door clicks into place, she moves quickly—gripping your hips as she turns you, pressing you firmly against the solid wood making you gasp against her mouth, a quiet, breathless sound that sends a rush of heat straight through her.

Vi exhales sharply, pulling away from your lips only slightly to breathe, pressing her palms flat against the door on either side of your head, caging you in without a single inch of space between you. She can feel your breath against her lips, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you both try to catch up with what’s happening.

But then, as she leans in again, ready to kiss you breathless, she sees you.

Your eyes, wide and glistening, your lips swollen from the kiss, your breaths coming out in soft little gasps. And the trail of tears… still visible on your cheeks.

Vi’s stomach clenches.

Her chest tightens as she reaches up without thinking, brushing the pad of her thumb against your cheek, just beneath where the tears had dried. You don’t pull away, but you don’t meet her gaze either. You just stand there, still breathing hard, your hands still clinging to her jacket like you need something to hold onto.

Vi swallows hard, her fingers still lingering on your cheek, and she lets herself look at you—really look at you.

And it feels like a fucking punch to her stomach, a hard one, because you are still so beautiful, even like this.

And, she doesn’t know if she’s supposed to be here. If she’s supposed to be kissing you like this, touching you like this.

But when your eyes finally meet hers again, she knows one thing for sure.

She doesn’t want to let you go.

Vi opens her mouth, barely forming the words before you beat her to it.

“Vi,” you whisper softly. “I-If we do this… if we do this, we can’t commit.”

She blinks, once, twice, her breath still uneven from the way she’d just had you pressed against the door, her lips still tingling from kissing you like she had been starving for it. Her hands are still on you, one hand against your cheek, and another on your waist, her thumb ghosting over the curve of your hip.

“What?” Vi’s voice is barely more than breath.

You look up at her and she sees the hesitation in your eyes, the way you swallow thickly before you even attempt to explain.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. Because out of everything she expected you to say, this wasn’t it.

No commitment.

The words press into Vi’s chest like something sharp, something cruel, something that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does—but god, it does.

Her mind races, trying to make sense of what you mean, of why you’d say that after everything. After the way you kissed her, after the way you ran back out that door.

No commitment.

Did you think she’d leave again? Did you really think she’d break your heart a second time?

Vi swallows, her throat tight, her fingers twitching against you.

“What do you mean?” she whispers, careful, like she’s afraid if she says it too loud, you’ll pull away completely.

But she already knows.

She knows what you mean. She knows exactly what you’re saying without even having to hear the rest of it.

You don’t trust her. Not with your heart.

And fuck, she wants to argue again, she wants to tell you she’s different, that she wouldn’t leave you alone this time, that she would stay, that she wants to stay.

But you’re looking at her like you’re waiting for her to fight it, and she suddenly realizes—maybe you need this.

Maybe you need to believe that thi won’t be anything more than what it is tonight.

Maybe you need to protect yourself from what loving her again might do to you.

Vi’s jaw clenches, her hands tightening ever so slightly where they rest against your waist. She should say something. She wants to fucking say something.

You hold Vi’s gaze, your breath still uneven, your heart pounding so loudly it feels like it might drown out your own words. You don’t want to say it—you really don’t—but you force yourself to. Because if you don’t, if you let her look at you like that for a second longer, you might break.

“We just… we can’t do it,” you say, barely above a whisper. “We can’t pretend like we can just pick up where we left off, Vi. You’re still you—you have your whole life out there that you have to get back to, your career, your band, and I…”

You pause, exhaling slowly, pressing yourself back against the door.

“I can’t go through it again.”

Vi’s breath hitches in her throat.

But you see it—the way your words hit her, the way her fingers tighten slightly at your waist before she forces them to loosen, like she’s reminding herself to be gentle with you. Like she’s reminding herself that she did this.

That she gave you a reason not to trust her.

She wets her lips, blinking once, twice, all over again as if she was trying to process what you’re saying. But you can see the protest in her eyes. You can see how much she wants to protest, to tell you that you’re wrong.

“So… what?” she asks roughly. “You just want this to be… casual?”

You hesitate. You don’t want to call it that. It feels wrong, too small, too insignificant to name what’s happening between you.

Because it’s not insignificant. It never has been.

But you can’t give her what she wants.

So you force yourself to nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

Vi stares at you, and it’s hard to read her face now, but you know her well enough to see the way her jaw tenses, the way she presses her tongue against the inside of her cheek like she’s trying to hold something back.

She looks down for a second, her hands still resting at your waist, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter.

“You… you want me to pretend that this—” she exhales, shaking her head just slightly, like she can’t believe she’s even saying it, “—that you don’t mean anything to me?”

Your chest tightens, and for a second, you almost cave.

“Vi…” You say her name softly, and it’s enough to make her close her eyes, her head tipping forward like she’s bracing herself for impact.

You bite your lip, shifting under her gaze, but you don’t deny it.

“I want something safe,” you say instead.

Vi stares at you longingly.

She runs a hand through her hair, exhaling a bitter laugh, shaking her head as she looks at you.

“Safe,” she echoes, like she’s tasting the word on her tongue, trying to decide how it makes her feel.

She knows exactly how it makes her feel.

It fucking hurts.

Because when it comes to you, Vi has never wanted safe.

She’s only ever wanted everything.

But she looks at you now and she can see the hesitation in your eyes, the way you’re holding yourself like you’re waiting for her to fight you, to push, to promise something she might not be able to keep.

And, Vi realizes that you probably need this boundary.

That this is the only way you know how to let her in without risking losing yourself in her all over again.

So she takes a slow breath, lets it settle in her chest before she speaks.

“Okay.”

You blink, like you weren’t expecting her to agree so easily.

“Okay?”

Vi nods, keeping her face straight and stoic.

“Okay,” she repeats, quieter this time.

She watches the way your lips part slightly, the way your breath catches, and fuck, she could kiss you again right now. Could prove to you that whatever this is—whatever it’s turning into—isn’t just something temporary for her.

That it never was.

But instead, she just looks at you, nods once more, and says, “I can do that.”

And she knows for sure if it’s a lie.

You can feel her breathing against you, warm and uneven, her body still so close. Your breath shudders, your fingers twitching at your sides.

You don’t know how to tell her that you’re just as scared, that this—whatever it is—is already starting to feel like something dangerous, something that might swallow you whole.

So instead, you do the only thing you can do.

You lift your hands, slowly, hesitantly, and brush your fingers over the sides of her face, over the sharp line of her jaw, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath your touch. Vi lets out a breath, and when you tilt your head slightly, your lips barely a breath away from hers, she doesn’t pull back.

She doesn’t run.

Neither do you.

And before she can say another word, before she can question it, you kiss her again.

Vi doesn’t hesitate this time.

The moment your lips crash against hers, she melts into it, melts into you. Her fingers tighten at your waist, pulling you impossibly close, like she needs to feel every inch of you against her. She’s warm, burning, her body radiating heat as she kisses you deeper, rougher, her teeth grazing your bottom lip before she soothes the sting with her tongue. A quiet moan escapes your throat, and that’s all it takes for Vi to lose whatever restraint she had left.

She cages you in again, her palms flat against the wood on either side of your head, her breath uneven as she pulls back just slightly. Not enough to create distance—just enough to look at you again.

She studies you, the way your fingers clutch at her jacket like you don’t want her to go anywhere, and for a brief moment, she wonders—is this what you need?

Because Vi doesn’t think she can just pretend.

She doesn’t think she can hold you like this, kiss you like this, and not want all of you.

But maybe… maybe right now, this is enough.

So instead of saying something that will ruin it, instead of pushing for something you aren’t ready to give, Vi does what she knows best.

She leans in again, slower this time, her lips brushing. Her hands move to your waist, then up your sides, fingers ghosting over your ribs before sliding down the the hem of your dress, slipping under the fabric to grasp at your thighs. She doesn’t rush—she takes her time, savoring the way your body reacts to her touch, how you shiver slightly beneath her hands.

“You sure about this?” she asks.

You nod, barely a whisper of movement, your hands sliding up her chest, over her strong shoulders, fingers curling into the soft fabric of her shirt.

“Yeah,” you whisper back.

One moment, you’re standing there, breathless, and the next, Vi is crashing into you, her lips slanting against yours.

You gasp against her mouth, and Vi grips you tighter, her strong hands sliding down, catching the backs of your thighs before lifting you up. You gasp, but your body reacts on instinct, your legs wrapping around her waist, arms winding around her shoulders as she holds you up with ease.

And, the way she holds you—firm, steady, possessive—makes the heat coil in your stomach.

She doesn’t stop kissing you, not even for a second, her tongue your mouth, tasting you. Vi carries you through deeper into your apartment, like she knows exactly where she’s going even though she’s only ever been here once for several minutes.

Your fingers slide into her hair, tugging slightly, and she groans against your lips, low and needy, sending a shiver down your spine. You can feel the tension in her muscles, the way her grip tightens around your waist.

She stumbles slightly as she reaches your bedroom door, blindly pushing it open with her foot before stepping inside. The moment she steps in, she presses you against the nearest wall, just for a second, just to feel you pinned against something, her body flush against yours, her breath hot against your lips.

“Fuck,” Vi mutters, her forehead pressing against yours.

Her breath is uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly, and when she looks at you—lips swollen, eyes dark with want—you swear you’ve never seen her like this.

You don’t give yourself time to overthink. You don’t want to think.

You just pull her back into you, your lips crashing into hers once more, and she groans against your mouth as she finally moves again, finally carries you those last few steps toward the bed.

And when she lays you down—Vi stares.

Her body hovers over yours, her hands braced on either side of your head, her breath still uneven as she takes you in—really takes you in. And fuck, you look so pretty like this, sprawled out beneath her, lips swollen and your lipstick smudged slightly from kissing her. Your chest rises and falls with each breath, the thin fabric of your dress shifting slightly, and Vi can’t stop staring, can’t stop drinking you in like she’s trying to memorize every inch of you.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and she exhales sharply through her nose, her hands curling into fists against the mattress as she forces herself to pause, to breathe. She feels like she’s standing at the edge of something dangerous, something she’s wanted for so long but never let herself have, and now that you’re here—now that you’re letting her have you—she feels like she might lose her fucking mind.

Her gaze trails down your body, heat pooling low in her stomach as she watches the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers twitch against the sheets, waiting for her to do something.

She wants you. Wants to make you forget everything except the way she touches you, the way she makes you feel, the way she’s about to have you.

Vi exhales again, slower this time, and when her eyes flicker back up to yours, she smiles bitterly—low, lazy, cocky.

“Oh, fuck,” she murmurs, shaking her head slightly, her pink hair falling into her eyes as she licks her lips.

She leans in then, pressing her lips against the soft skin of your neck, her teeth grazing just slightly as she whispers against you teasingly.

“Vi, hurry, please—”

“I’m on it, baby,” she says.

Vi doesn’t waste another second.

She shrugs off her jacket in a rush, the leather hitting the floor, and her fingers already working at the hem of her shirt. She pulls her shirt over her head, leaving her in her jeans and her sports bra, barely noticing where it lands—because you’re right there.

Vi moves above you, her body pressing closer, and that’s when you see it.

The small glint of silver catches your eye, swaying gently as she hovers over you, her breath warm against your skin. Your lips part slightly, because you know that necklace—

And now, it’s still there.

Vi doesn’t seem to notice at first. She’s too lost in you, in the way your body moves beneath hers, in the way she’s been desperate to have you again. But when she feels you stiffen slightly beneath her, when she pulls back just enough to really look at you, she follows your gaze—and freezes.

Her breath falters, chest rising and falling just a little too quickly, her entire body suddenly too still.

She realizes what you’re looking at.

You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to.

And Vi—Vi feels like she’s been caught.

The necklace still rests against her skin every single day, always hidden beneath layers of fabric, unseen by anyone else.

But now, you see it. You know.

She doesn’t just want you tonight.

She wants you always.

Right in front of her, staring up with wide eyes, breath coming in soft, uneven gasps, your lips still swollen, and your dress still clinging to you.

And holy fuck, she needs you out of it.

Her hands find the fabric at your sides, her fingertips pressing into your skin as she tugs, as she urges your dress higher, bunching it up until she can pull it over your head.

You lift your arms for her, letting her take it off, letting her strip you down just like she wants, and Vi swears her brain short circuits the second she sees you like this.

Her breath catches, her pupils blown wide as her gaze drags down, raking over every inch of your skin exposed to her.

She groans softly, deeply and almost pained, before she lunges forward, her lips finding the soft skin of your collarbone, your shoulder, anywhere she can reach. She kisses you so messily, open-mouthed and desperate, her tongue flicking out between kisses, her teeth grazing just enough to make you moan.

She wants to taste every inch of you, mark you up so that you remember exactly where she’s been.

“V-Violet—”

Your voice—soft, breathy, breaking just slightly on her name—hits Vi harder than anything else has tonight. It goes straight to her chest, down to the part of her that remembers, that aches for every time you used to say her name like that, every time you used to fall apart for her.

And fuck, she’s missed it. She’s missed you.

A soft whimper rumbles from Vi’s throat, her teeth scraping gently along the delicate skin of your chest before she pulls back just enough to look at you. Your bra is pushed up, her hands eagerly roaming your tits, swueezing and pulling just like she always did whenever she was in a rush to make you feel good. Its not long before she reaches behind you, one hand undoing your bra and throwing it on the floor with the rest of your clothes.

And you’re already so wrecked, your lips parted, your breaths uneven, your body arching beneath her as she touched you.

God, she wants you—wants to ruin you, wants to hear you beg, wants to make you forget everything but the way she feels against you, around you… inside you.

Vi’s hands tremble slightly as she hooks her fingers into the waistband of your panties, tugging at the fabric slowly down your legs. She watches the way you react—the way your breath catches, the way your thighs tense, the way your fingers clutch at the sheets like you’re bracing yourself. Like you’re nervous.

She pauses, her thumbs rubbing small, absentminded circles against your hips, trying to soothe the tension in your body.

She’s thought about this.

Fuck, she’s thought about this almost every night—about you, about having you like this again, spread out beneath her, breathless and wanting an be needing her.

It’s been so long. Too long.

And as much as Vi wants to devour you as soon as possible—she also wants to savor this. She wants to feel it.

You make a small noise—soft, hesitant—and when Vi finally drags the last piece of clothing down your thighs, when she finally sees you, all of you, she lets out a breath she didnt even know she was holding.

You shift slightly, instinctively moving to close your legs, to hide yourself, but Vi is already there—her hands gripping your thighs, spreading you open for her.

And then she sees the hesitation in your eyes. The way you bite your lip and glance away. Shy.

Something in Vi’s chest tightens.

She knows.

She knows.

You haven’t done this in a long time.

She wants to say something, but can’t find the right words. So instead, she does the only thing she can—she leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh, her lips soft and wet.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” she murmurs against your skin. “Always been so pretty, baby.”

She kisses you again, this time closer.

But when your breath hitches, when you finally look at her, when your fingers twitch like you want to reach for her but don’t know if you should—Vi knows.

She knows you want this.

You need her.

So Vi immediately gets to work.

The second she spreads you open, the second she sees how wet you are, she groans low in her throat, the sound vibrating against your skin as she leans in without hesitation, before finally dragging her tongue through your wet folds.

Your body jerks as get tongue presses flat and firm against your clit, and your fingers immediately reach for her, tangling into her hair—longer now than it used to be, your fingertips curling around the strands, gripping on it, pulling on it.

Vi feels you everywhere—the way your thighs twitch slightly against her hands, the way your hips shift up as if you were chasing the warmth of her mouth, the way your fingers tighten in her hair the second she flicks her tongue just right.

She hums against you, reveling in the way you respond to her so easily, like no time has passed at all, like your body still remembers her, still wants her just as much as she’s always wanted you.

She licks into you again, her tongue delving deeper into your pussy, messily and slurping loudly while her hands grip your thighs as she pulls you closer, like she can’t get enough—like she wants to devour you whole.

“Fuck,” Vi breathes against you. “You taste so good. Missed this pretty pussy so much.”

You let out a soft, broken sound as your hips buck slightly, your fingers still tangled in her hair.

Vi whimpers against your cunt, at the way your body gives to her so naturally, so easily. She tightens her grip, pressing you down into the mattress as she speeds up, her tongue dragging through your folds with faster strokes before circling your clit.

And when you whimper, Vi fucking smirks against you, because this is what she’s missed. The taste of you. The sound of you. The way you fall apart so easily for her, like you were made for this, like you were made for her.

“Hah, mmph—F-Fuck, Violet—”

Vi rolls her eyes back in bliss, moaning into your messy cunt as she slurps and sucks on your swollen clit. She loves hearing you moan her name like that—absolutely lives for it. Craves it. And god, she could fuck you all day just so that she could hear the heavenly sounds that fall from your lips.

She feels it before you even say anything—the way your thighs tremble beneath her palms, the way you close her in between your legs, the way you pant quicker and wuicker by the second, the way your body starts to tighten.

She knows you’re close already.

She knew you would be—knew from the second she laid you out in front of her, from the moment she tasted you, from the way you gasped and clung to her, fingers tangled in her hair, pulling, tugging, harder and harder, your body arching.

And that only makes her hungrier.

Vi doesn’t let up.

If anything, she doubles down, her grip tightening on your thighs, her tongue moving faster, more precise, lapping up everything you give her like she needs it, like she’s starving for it. She slurps at your wetness desperately, her tongue flicking, curling, pressing your pussy just right—just perfectly—and it sends you spiraling.

You don’t stand a chance.

Your entire body tenses as the orgasm crashes into you, ripping through you so fast, so hard, that your back arches off the bed, your thighs squeezing around Vi’s head as your fingers pull at her hair, and you cry out.

“V-Violet!”

Vi doesn’t stop.

She doesn’t slow down, doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even pause—she just keeps going, her tongue still moving against you, inside you, her hands still gripping you tight, holding you down, keeping you there, like she’s refusing to let you come down from it, like she wants to drag you through it again and again and again.

And it’s too much.

Your breath stutters, your body twitching beneath her, overstimulated and shaking, but she’s relentless.

She moans against you, the vibration making you shudder, her tongue never stopping, pulling another wave of pleasure out of you before you can even recover from the first.

“V-Vi—” you gasp, broken and trembling.

But Vi just groans in response, like she loves how fucked out you sound, like it only spurs her on. She presses herself closer, tongue flicking faster, sucking have on got clit, drinking you down, devouring you, like she doesn’t plan on stopping until she’s satisfied—until you’re a mess beneath her, until you can’t think of anything else but her.

And fuck, with the way she’s going, you’re not sure she ever plans to stop.

Vi growls against you. Your body twitches beneath her, still trembling from your other orgasms, your breath ragged, uneven, and yet she doesn’t stop. Her tongue is still working you over and over, her hands still holding you down, still keeping you open for her, like she needs this just as much as she needs to breathe.

You gasp, your fingers tightening in her hair, tugging, pulling, trying to push her away, but Vi just moans at the feeling, her nails digging into your thighs as she keeps going, trying to drown you in the pleasure she’s giving you.

“V-Vi, I can’t—”

But Vi only smiles against you. Her fingers squeeze at your thighs, firm, steady, keeping you right there. And then, she finally pulls back—just barely, just enough to let her breath kiss over your wet, sensitive cunt as she tilts her head up to look at you.

Her lips are glossy with you, her pink hair disheveled from where your fingers have been pulling, and her pupils are blown, dark and hungry, her mouth curling into something dangerously smug, something so unbearably cocky.

“Can’t?” she echoes, raspy, teasing.

She presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss against the inside of your thigh, her teeth scraping just slightly before she smirks up at you.

And then she’s right back on you, tongue slipping inside, sucking at your clit, pulling another moan from your lips before you can even think to stop it.

You don’t know how many more times you came on her tongue.

It was so much.

And soon, you could hear Vi whimpering, louder and louder, her hands gripping your thighs tighter as she grinds her hips down onto your bed while she ate you out.

Vi was close. Untouched.

“V-Vi…” you breathe, your body trembling.

“Just a little more, baby, please…”

And you couldn’t say no to her. She always asked so nicely, even before—you loved it when she’d beg.

So she kept going and going and going.

Her whimpers grow louder, turning into moans, as she continuted to work her tongue against you. Fuck, she was so close. So fucking close. She could feel it tight in her cunt, waiting. All she needed was one more out of you. Just one.

She could feel you, almost there.

And when you jerk, trying to pull away from her mouth only for just a moment, Vi pulls you against her, wrapping her mouth around your clit and sucking. Hard.

You scream, the sound sending a wave over Vi’s body and that just about does it for her.

“M-Mmmph—Nn-ah, f-fuuuuck—” Vi whispers, gasping for air, her face still against your cunt.

She rests there for a moment, her cheek pressed againdt your inner thigh as she tries to catch her breath, her body shivering from cumming hard. She could feel her boxers, wet and sticky, and she swears you just sent her to heaven.

It doesnt take long for her to regain her energy, before crawling back up, leaving gentle kisses over your skin, before claiming your mouth with hers once more. You could taste yourself on her tongue, in her mouth. And you knew for a fact that Vi was cocky about it. She smiles against your lips before trailing back down to your jaw and neck, kissing the small bruises she left on them earlier.

Her hands are still resting lightly on your body, her fingers gentle now, as if she’s afraid you might shatter if she’s not careful. She pulls away a moment later, just enough to look at you.

She stares at you for a while, like she’s trying to memorize every inch of you—your flushed face, your lips swollen from the kiss, your eyes still half-lidded.

There’s a flutter in her chest. Vi can’t explain it—not really—not when every part of her is overwhelmed with the need to keep you close, to have you.

But she doesn’t say anything.

She just looks at you, her thumb gently brushing along the side of your cheek, her eyes soft as they lock onto yours. Her mind is running a mile a minute, every thought tangled up in the same three words that she wants to say but knows she can’t.

She says them to herself over and over.

I love you.

She says it in her head, again and again, her lips barely moving with the words as she stares at you. She wants to say them aloud, wants to let you know how much she means it, how deeply those words run for her, how she’s only ever felt like this for you.

But she holds herself back. She’s afraid of what might happen if she does.

Vi’s not sure if you feel the same way—if you even could, after everything that’s happened.

So instead of saying the words, she just leans down again, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, letting her lips linger there for a moment, breathing you in. She pulls away slowly and moves to lay down next to you, her gaze still locked onto yours.

The room is quiet now. Vi watches you closely, her eyes tracing the rise and fall of your chest, the way your face softens as you drift off to sleep beside her. You’re curled against her, one of your hands still resting lightly on her chest.

The soft glow of the light outside the window makes your skin glow. She can’t stop staring.

Her fingers, still warm from where they rested on your skin, twitch at her sides, but she doesn’t dare move. She can’t tear herself away from you, from the way your hair spills across the pillow, the way your lips are still parted slightly. She reaches out slowlyc just to brush a few strands of hair from your face, her fingertips grazing your cheek gently.

You stir slightly, your lips parting in a soft sigh, and Vi feels her heart lurch again. She knows she should sleep—knows she should rest too, but the thought of closing her eyes and missing even a second of you like this seems impossible.

Vi can feel herself drawn to you, drawn to every subtle movement, every breath you take. Her mind spins with thoughts—of the past, of what could’ve been, of what might still be. She thinks of the way you kissed her earlier, the way you touched her, the way she was so sure of you before, and then everything fell apart. The distance between you both became something too big to cross, and now, after everything, she’s here again, watching you as you sleep beside her.

It’s not just being close to you—though, fuck, she wants to hold you, wants to feel you pressed against her until there’s no space left between you. But it’s the fact that she’s here with you. After all the years apart from you, she finally has you again. Right next to her. And she doesn’t know what it means or where it’s going, but right now, she feels whole in a way she hasn’t in years.

Her hand hovers for a moment, just over yours, but she doesn’t touch you. She just watches you, watches the way your chest rises and falls, the way your face looks so relaxed, so safe, like you’ve finally found peace in her presence.

Vi stays there all night, her eyes never leaving you. She watches the clock tick by, watches the light change, watches you sleep, and for the first time in so long, she doesn’t feel so alone.

series masterlist | next chapter

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[mugglebornmarvelite]

A Valentine’s Day to Remember

Paring: Avenger! Bucky Barnes x Avenger! Fem! Reader

Summary: On Valentine’s Day, your training session with Bucky is no different. He’s tough on you, but you appreciate his guidance. However, a little interruption leads to a sweet surprise later that evening. Based on this request!

Word Count: Roughly 1.6k

Warnings: Fluff, teasing, slight angst (so slight that it’s barely there), awkwardness, unspoken feelings, the reader's anxious thoughts, protective Bucky, training (it wasn’t that great, but I wanted to write it for some cute tension), comical violence, playful chaos (it’s the Avengers after all)

Author’s Note: Thank you for the request. I tweaked it a little bit in the hopes of making it sweet and funny. @jackys-stuff-blog

I’m back, so enjoy more Valentine’s Day content :)

Navigation

Divider by: @strangergraphics 

The hum of the facility was peaceful, but the energy bouncing around inside you was anything but.

When you got out of bed, you glanced at the calendar. 

February 14th

You sighed and got ready to start your day.

You were still new to the team, only a few weeks into training with the Avengers. 

It was a potent mixture of excitement, fear, and joy wrapped in one.

You gave it your best shot, but every day, you felt like you fell just short of the bar set by the seasoned heroes around you. 

The Avengers were the best of the best, and sometimes it felt like they were trying to break you, push you past your limits, and then push some more. 

Bucky Barnes, in particular, was harder on you than anyone else. 

He didn’t want to admit it, but he cared. Not just because you were younger but because you were different. 

Sweet, shy, a little sunshine in a place that sometimes felt too dark.

You didn’t mind so much. You didn’t want to be perfect, but you wanted to prove to the team, especially Bucky, that you could hold your own. 

But training with Bucky means it’s going to be a long morning.

“Come on, kid,” Bucky said, his eyes locked on yours after you finished his warmups, which felt more like the entirety of a workout routine. “You can do better than that.”

“I am trying,” you said with a huff. 

You felt the weight of his gaze and had to resist the urge to fidget under it. His words made you feel small. You wanted to prove yourself to him. You wanted him to believe you could hold your own.

His lips twitched in a small, teasing smile. “You’ve gotta do better than that if you want to make it out there with the rest of us.”

You nodded and shifted your stance.

When his hand shot out to grab you, you reacted, trying to block, but he was faster. Bucky spun you around, twisting your arm behind your back. 

You grunted as you found your back pressed against his chest, his body flush against yours, his grip tightening around your wrist.

“Gotcha,” he murmured, his breath warm against your neck. 

“I… I wasn’t ready,” you stammered, embarrassed as you struggled to break free, but Bucky only chuckled.

“You never are,” he teased, his voice laced with amusement, “But you will be soon. Don’t worry, sunshine. I’ve got you.”

The warmth of his words seemed to melt the tension in your chest, but your heart still hammered in your ears, the proximity between you two making it hard to think straight. 

With a swift, practiced move, Bucky released you from his grip and pushed you lightly away. You stumbled back a few steps, regaining your footing. 

He was already readying himself for the next move, his steely blue eyes sharp again.

“Again,” he commanded, his voice firm but not unkind.

You nodded, trying to shake off the lingering heat from his touch, but it was impossible to ignore. You lunged at him, trying to catch him off guard.

He moved effortlessly, dodging your lunge. His flipped you flat on your back, and before you could react, Bucky was there, pinning you to the mat, his metal arm hovering over your chest.

He leaned down slightly, his face hovering just above yours. “You really need to work on your form,” he muttered.

You swallowed hard, heat flooding your cheeks. You could feel every inch of him above you.

“Not bad for someone like you,” Bucky said, his voice low, a hint of pride in his words. “But next time, try not to get flipped so easily.”

You chuckled nervously, still breathless beneath him. “Yeah… I’ll try,” you whispered, your voice softer than you intended.

There was a strange kind of intimacy in the air, as the world had quieted around you. Your eyes locked for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

But before either of you could say anything, a voice from the doorway broke the moment.

“Am I interrupting something?” Wanda asked as she strolled into the room, watching the two of you with a knowing smile.

You scrambled to sit up, feeling the awkward tension in the air as Bucky stood and offered you a hand, which you gratefully accepted.

“We were just about to finish this sparring session,” Bucky muttered.

“Oh, a sparring session, huh?” Wanda smile. “I didn’t realize they was that intense.” She turned her gaze to you, the corners of her lips curling into a grin. “So, any plans after this? Maybe a last-minute date? There are a lot of nice places around here, you know.”

You shook your head, slightly flustered. “I’m just going to stay in tonight,” you said softly. “Maybe watch a movie.”

“Stay in?” Wanda’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “It’s Valentine’s day. How about a date with a guy your age, maybe?” She flashed Bucky a pointed, subtle look, just enough to make the air shift. “I could set up something.”

You didn’t catch it, but Bucky’s expression darkened almost instantly. He stepped forward, his jaw tightening, and shot Wanda a sharp look. “No, she said she’s not interested in a date. And you need to stop trying to push that on her.”

Wanda raised both hands, feigning innocence. “Alright, alright. Just trying to make sure the poor girl doesn’t miss out on anything.”

She turned and walked out of the room, but not before sending Bucky a lingering glance that left him looking slightly annoyed.

You, on the other hand, were oblivious to the exchange. You simply smiled at Bucky, trying to shake off the odd tension in the room.

“I’m sorry…” You trailed off, unsure of how to finish the thought.

Bucky sighed, his gaze softening as he looked down at you. “It’s not your fault.”

“I-,” you started softly, though you were unsure what had just happened. But before you could dwell on it, Bucky clapped you on the shoulder.

“You’re fine, sunshine.” Bucky smiled. “Let’s get back to it.”

The warmth of his words lingered in the air long after Wanda left, and you found yourself wishing that the conversation had gone a little differently. But it was hard to focus on that when Bucky’s quiet reassurance made you feel special in a way you hadn’t expected.

Later that evening, fresh out of a long, soothing shower and wrapped in pajamas, you were met with quiet as you made your way downstairs. 

For the most part, everyone was out celebrating the holiday of love. But your plans included stuffing your face and watching comedies on the giant flat-screen TV.

Your plans stopped when you found Peter sprawled out on the couch, grinning from ear to ear. He was holding up a large box.

"Hey! Got a delivery for you!" Peter announced, his voice practically singing.

You raised an eyebrow. “What’s this?”

He gave you a mischievous smirk. “Dunno, but it’s got your name on it.”

Taking the box from his hands, you carefully opened it. 

Inside was a beautiful bouquet of wild daisies, lavender, and sunflowers, as well as a massive box of chocolates, wrapped with a level of neatness that had to be intentional.

There was a card that said, “Hope this makes your day a little sweeter, sunshine.” No name, but you had a very good idea of who it was from.

Before you could even process it, a voice came from behind you.

“You look surprised.” Bucky’s voice cut through the silence. 

Turning around, you found him standing in the doorway.

“I didn’t…” you started, but your words trailed off. 

The fact that he had gone to all this trouble for you meant something, didn’t it?

Bucky closed the space between you with a few long strides, and before you could think of anything else, he wrapped you in a hug, pulling you close to his chest. “You deserve it,” he murmured, kissing your forehead softly. His voice was warm, like melted chocolate, making your heart swell.

Bucky gently pulled back, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“Let’s watch a movie, yeah?” Bucky asked, his voice smooth, like he knew he was about to make everything even better.

You nodded, still reeling from the sweet surprise. The day had been a chaotic mess of training and tension, but Bucky's thoughtful gesture made it feel like it was all worth it.

As you settled onto the couch, Bucky’s arm wrapped around your shoulder, and you melted against his side.

The movie began, but honestly, you weren’t even paying attention. All you could focus on was how perfect this was until Peter suddenly released an exaggerated “Ahem!” trying to get a peek at what was happening between you two.

Before you could even laugh, Bucky, without missing a beat, grabbed a vase off the table and threw it straight at Peter’s head. 

Not to inflict too much bodily injury, but definitely enough to scatter him like a cockroach when the lights come on.

Peter’s spidey sense kicked in just in time, and he shot a web to the ceiling, narrowly avoiding the vase. “Okay, okay! I get it! I’m clearly not wanted! I’m going!” He scrambled upstairs.

You let out a soft laugh, and Bucky grumbled under his breath, but there was a slight curve to his lips as he glanced at you. His arm pulled you even closer, and just like that, everything was perfect again. 

Except for the vase, but that was just a minor detail.

“WHO BROKE MY FAVORITE VASE?”

Or, not so minor.

Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed!

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Much love x

- Maeve

[sanjisleggy]

welcome to cupid island (black leg sanji x reader) [pt1]

a/n: omg so i did not expect the post i made about this idea to pop off so hard ;0; thank you to everyone who commented their interest in this fic! hopefully i managed to tag everyone who asked to be tagged 

contents: jealous sanji, some fluff, a tiny bit of angst (a mere taste of what’s to come)

wc. 2.5k

PART 2

i. 

“doesn’t it bother you at all?” Nami asked, tilting her head in the direction of a familiar blond head of hair. “that he’s like that?” Sanji remains unaware of his crewmates’ attention being directed his way, too engaged in conversation with a group of ladies, soaking up all their kind words and light touches. Robin chuckles behind her hand whilst Zoro rolls his eyes, taking another sip of his fifth drink for the night. 

“no, not really,” you reply with a soft laugh yourself as you continue to watch your boyfriend wiggle in joy at all the attention he was receiving. “it’s pretty harmless and i know he knows not to take it too far.” Zoro rolls his eyes again.

“you have a lot of faith in the cook, don’t you?” Robin interjects with a warm smile. she’s always been intrigued by the dynamic between the Straw Hats’ chef and botanist. “most people would count what he’s doing as ‘taking it too far’, don’t you think?” she asks and to an onlooker it might sound like a challenge of some sort but you know Robin’s just curious.

“you’re right,” you reply, “both you and Nami.” you reach out to give the navigator sitting beside you a side hug. “i just think we have a special kind of understanding, if that makes sense.”

“whatever floats your boat.” Zoro speaks for the first time since you guys entered the bar. “knowing the shitty cook, i just have a feeling he won’t be so patient if the tables were turned.”

“i’d have to agree.” Nami hums thoughtfully before cracking a smile. “but you’re such a catch, it won’t be long until someone threatens to take his place, huh?” though you feel your face heat up at the compliment, you simply shake your head and laugh, glancing over once more at your beloved.

this time, his eyes catch yours and a wide, goofy grin spreads across his face. Sanji waves, body swaying slightly from the alcohol.

“HI MY SWEET (Y/N)!” he yells with a certain lack of restraint that only comes with being inebriated. before you can react, he wobbles over to your table, ignoring the curious glances and calls from the women he was chatting to before. walking up behind your chair, Sanji slumps over and wraps his arms around your chest, nuzzling his face into your neck. “‘m tired now. let’s go to bed?” he mumbles, continuing to rub his stubbly face against your skin.

after a whole thirty minutes of slowly guiding him back to the Merry and into your shared quarters, you finally manage to make it to bed. you tuck Sanji in before crawling to his side. still barely awake, he hums and pulls you close, tucking your head under his chin and tangling his long legs with yours under the blanket. his hands find their way under the back of your shirt, fingers lightly brushing gentle circles into your skin.

“did you have a fun night?” you ask as you press a soft kiss to his collarbone.

“mmhmm,” he hums. “all the pretty ladies asked me so many questions about our adventures,” Sanji’s words got more muffled by the syllable as he spoke while burying his face in your hair, “but all i could really tell them was about how awesome and sexy you are when you beat up assholes and whatever.”

“oh, really?” you can’t help but continue the conversation even though you can tell how close to falling asleep he is.

“mmhmm…” Sanji takes a comically big whiff of your hair. “time for sleep. goodnight, my love.”

“goodnight, sweet boy.” 

ii.

the next morning you dock at a new island that seems fairly peaceful enough for everyone to go about and explore on their own. Luffy, Usopp and Chopper run off to god knows where so the rest of you opt to stick together.

still slightly hungover, Sanji hugs your arm as you stroll down the bustling streets, trailing behind Robin, Nami and Zoro. before you can ask if he’d like to go rest in bed, he suddenly perks up and breaks off from the group to go greet a group of well-dressed women.

actually, now that you think of it–

“doesn’t it seem like everyone is super dressed up here?” you point out, eyes scanning the crowd. all the men and women look well-groomed and don very clean, stylish outfits.

“it’s not just the people,” Nami responds, “the whole town looks decorated for some kind of festival don’t you think?”

“whatever’s going on, there’s far too much pink,” Zoro scoffs halfheartedly.

“it’s Valentine’s Week!” an eavesdropping passerby shares. “we celebrate it here on Cupid’s Island every year. it’s when everyone’s encouraged to woo their romantic interests or propose to their significant others. this year’s special, though.”

“and why’s that?” Robin asks.

“on the last day is when our crown prince Aphr is going to ascend the throne and choose his queen. it’ll be the final thing we celebrate as a town before Valentine’s Week ends! you guys are tourists, right? you should stay until then.”

“when’s that?”

“three days from now!”

“thats roughly how long we have until the log pose sets so i don’t see why not.” Nami shrugs.

after thanking the stranger for their help, the four of you decide to settle lodging for the whole crew until it’s time to leave. as the others discuss further details, you opt to look for Sanji to reel him back to the group. you spot his back a few metres away but before you can call out for him, an old lady grabs your arm.

“hey!” you cry out instinctively, instantly capturing the attention of your crewmates as well as your lover whose eyes dart around frantically looking for you. meanwhile, Nami, Robin and Zoro ready themselves for a possible fight.

“it’s time for a love reading!” the old lady announces and everyone around you cheers. “come, take a seat.” she ushers you to a stool just beside her.

“what’s going on?” you ask, still apprehensive but less on-edge than you were a second ago.

“it’s a Valentine’s Week tradition, my dear, nothing to worry about.” she straightens your clothes and tidies  your hair as you take a seat, glancing over at your crewmates for reassurance. Zoro nods, hands at the ready. “i heard you were tourists so i’ll do this reading for free, dearie.”

before you can ask what the hell she’s talking about, she closes her eyes and waves her hands around in an odd manner. the surrounding crowd goes quiet, seemingly entranced by the display, looking almost eager for what’s to come. the only movement comes from Sanji who’s now pushing through the locals to get to you.

then, out of the blue, the old lady gasps as her eyes shoot open. she stares at you incredulously for a second before turning to the audience.

“her score is a hundred out of a hundred!”

just as Sanji reaches you to pull you into a protective embrace, the entire street roars with excitement at the elderly woman’s news.

“what the hell does that mean?” Sanji murmurs. you wonder to yourself the same thing, finding comfort in the chaos from the warmth of his body pressed against yours as well as the knowledge that, without fail, he came right to you when he thought you were in danger.

iii.

much to the entire crew’s relief, your perfect score was apparently nothing but good news. for the next two days, you and your companions are treated like VIPs, much to Nami’s pleasure because it resulted in free lodging at the swankiest hotel.

“all already fully paid for and it’s right beside the royal palace!” the random stranger who sponsored your rooms proudly proclaimed, his eyes scanned over your crewmates before landing and staying on you. “nothing but the best for this year’s prime candidate, of course.” 

“and who are we to say no to free things, right guys?” Nami instantly took him up on the offer before the man guided you to the elevators. as you streamed in, the last of the crew to enter the lift, the man took your hand and lifted it to his lips.

“and i hope you will consider me as your choice after this generous gift, milady,” he said after pressing a kiss to your skin. so shocked by the sudden turn of events, you could only stare at him in confusion as the rest of your companions’ jaws dropped.

“she’s taken,” Sanji growled as he grabbed your arm and tugged you to his chest. “thanks for the free rooms but kindly fuck off. now. or i’ll kick your ass so hard the whole hotel is gonna collapse.”

though it was the first, it was certainly not the last time people approached you to shower you with compliments and gifts. while their methods of wooing you vary widely from handmade snacks to reciting poems, one thing they all have in common was how unabashed their attempts are.

“i think our chef’s about to lose it,” Robin observes as the few of you stroll down the street booths to soak in all the festivities. “he’s flirting with the local women as usual but it’s like his eyes are glued onto you,” she laughs, gesturing in his direction.

turning around to see what she means, you bite back a laugh of your own when you spot your beloved partner a few booths away. although surrounded by women who are clearly interested in reciprocating his advances, Sanji’s eyes are blown wide open and staring right at you. his face turns red when you wave and shoot him a smile.

“excuse me, i have a gift for you–” the nth unfamiliar voice of the day tears your attention away from your boyfriend as you turn around to respond to your new pursuer. before you can reject their present, though, you feel a sudden overwhelming presence behind you as the stranger’s face turns pale.

looking up, you’re greeted by the scowling face of your favourite chef, cigarette between his teeth nearly cut in half from how hard he’s biting it. his sharp gaze pierces the man in front of you. if looks could kill, it would’ve been a massacre.

“hey sweet boy,” you greet, reaching out to cup his face in your hand, head still looking straight up at him as he towers behind you. the moment your skin makes contact with his, Sanji’s body relaxes and he turns his gaze to you, his eyes now round and shining. he holds your hand to his face, the size of his hand engulfing the entirety of yours.

“ya finally done flirting with women, shitty cook?” Zoro yells from a short distance away. Sanji shouts back his own retort as usual, all the while still pressing your hand to his cheek. when he’s done verbally abusing his friend, he returns his attention to the stranger still standing in front of you, now seemingly frozen in place, wrapped present still held in his shaking hands.

“and you.” Sanji mutters. “beat it.” 

iv. 

for the rest of the day, as the sun made its slow descent from the sky, the blond haired cook stayed glued to your side.

“it’s like he’s your stupid guard dog or something,” Zoro snorted; and though he’d meant it in a derogatory sense, you could kind of see where he was coming from. Sanji had never looked so threatening in the time you’ve known him, his gaze was sharp with his fist clenched at his side (his other hand was holding yours) and it looked like he was ready to pounce on whichever poor soul tried to steal you away from him next.

“oh my god, he’s actually like a dog,” Nami concurred with an amused look on her face when she observed how the chef only lost his tough guy act whenever you paid him any attention. the second you talked to him or looked his way, he would instantly snap back to his normal sweet self.

“it’s quite endearing in a weird way,” Robin added. neither Nami or Zoro agreed out loud but shared the same sentiment. 

after sunset, you find yourself reunited with the rest of your crew for dinner. with your free rooms came access to the hotel’s fanciest restaurant (much to Luffy’s delight) and (to Sanji’s horror) even richer men and women trying to make you fall in love with them.

“i wonder how much this is gonna cost,” Luffy says at one point, words muffled from how much food he’s stuffing into his mouth.

“it’s all free,” Robin answers, “everything here was sent by and paid for by the other patrons.” She turns to look at you, propping up her arm by her elbow to rest her chin on her hand. “our dear (Y/N) sure is popular here.” she says, smiling endearingly when she notices how Sanji shuffles his chair closer to yours in response.

without saying a word, he reaches out under the table to hold your hand. the relief he feels when you give him a light squeeze in return makes his heart sink the lowest it ever has the entire time your crew set foot on Cupid Island and he can’t really put his finger on the reason. 

shouldn’t i feel happy she’s still willing to hold my hand?

Sanji pulls your hand over to rest atop his lap before choosing to forgo the rest of his dinner to simply play with your fingers. for a good while, you’re content with watching him quietly caress and rub your digits as though they’re the most precious things in the world, heart fluttering at the gesture. you can tell he’s thinking about something but decide that it’ll be better to ask him about it later in the privacy of your hotel room.

“excuse me, miss (Y/N)?” a deep voice says as the young man who owns it walks through the restaurant and towards your crew’s table. gasps erupt from every other table as all eyes fall on him and subsequently your group as well. seeing as its nothing new, most of your companions simply ignore him to continue eating and drinking to their hearts’ content. the man stops by your side, standing in between your chair and Sanji’s, seemingly undeterred by the sight of your hand resting on your beloved’s thigh.

“yes?” you respond simply, looking up at him. you’d be a liar if you said he wasn’t an attractive person, with his shiny soft hair, defined cheekbones and the brightest eyes you’ve ever seen; but his looks alone do nothing to your heart.

the man drops to one knee before you and just a split second after, you feel Sanji tighten his grip on your hand. his palms turning cold and clammy as he glares at the intruder forcing himself in between you and him. the rest of your crew freeze in place, mouths agape at the sight playing out before them.

“my name is Prince Aphr of Cupid Island and i would like to officially court you for your eventual hand in marriage.”

to be continued

–

tags: @amei-draws-stuff @carmen-skullz @cobainlover @lara-christensen-me @shondlenoodle @teewon @makingmammonmoves @carmendanny2

[rootedinrevisions]

Terrified to Lose You Two

Summary: Jake is gone. And you don't know when or if he's coming back. Left to navigate the aftermath of that night on your own, you try to convince yourself it was nothing. But when weeks turn into months, and an unexpected scare leaves you spiraling, it becomes impossible to ignore just how much his absence weighs on you.

Warnings: Mentions of Pregnancy, Pregnancy Scare. Also just a lot of angst and worrying. Maybe mutual idiots with feelings?

Word Count: 3,551

Author’s Note: This took WAY longer than I planned it to. But honestly I hadn't originally planned on this to have a Part 2 but since there was interest decided to see what I could come up with. I know the ending is kind of open ended. I'm not sure i I want to have a Part 3 or not. So I tried to leave it so that this could be the end or there could be more. I hope you all enjoy it and that it ends up being worth the wait. xx

You don’t know how long it’s been exactly. Days blur together when there’s no news. No updates. No messages. 

Just an empty space where Jake should be.

You wake up in the middle of the night, stomach twisted in knots, reaching for your phone before you remember he’s not going to text you.  

Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

And that thought is a black hole, threatening to swallow you whole.

So you keep yourself busy. Work. Exercise. Anything to outrun the restless energy clawing at your ribs.

But your body feels…off. It’s subtle at first. A gnawing exhaustion that sleep doesn’t fix. A vague nausea that lingers in the back of your throat, never quite enough to make you sick, just enough to make food unappealing.

You brush it off as stress. The lack of sleep. The sheer weight of waiting for Jake to come back. Or even just to hear news that he and the others are okay.

Then you check the date. 

Your heart stops.

No. You count again.

No. Your stomach lurches as you double check your calendar, fingers tightening around your phone as if that might somehow change the numbers.

Late. You’re late.

And suddenly, the exhaustion, the nausea, the hollow ache in your chest…it all feels suffocating.

No. No, it’s stress. It has to be stress.

You can’t be. That doesn’t make sense. You’re on the pill. You never miss a dose. You’ve taken it every day at the same time like clockwork.

This isn’t happening. It can’t be happening.

You take a slow breath, pressing your fingertips against your temples. Stress messes with your cycle. That’s all this is. The waiting, the worrying, the exhaustion, it's all too much, and your body is just reacting to it.

You try to shake it off. You try to be rational.

But then the symptoms start feeling more real.

A wave of nausea hits you out of nowhere while you’re brushing your teeth. You gag, barely managing to stop yourself from getting sick. Later, in the shower, the steam makes your head swim. The next thing you know, you're gripping the tile wall, knees nearly buckling, blinking against the sudden dizziness.

Your heart pounds. You breathe through it, shaking your head. It's fine. You just stood up too fast. You didn’t eat enough today. Except you did eat. You had half a sandwich, a protein bar, and a coffee. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. Wasn’t it?

The doubt creeps back in. By the time dinner rolls around, even the thought of food makes your stomach turn. You stare at your favorite takeout sitting on the counter, appetite gone, throat tight.

Panic wraps around your ribs.

No. No, this isn’t happening.

You can’t tell Jake because he’s not here.

You can’t tell anyone else because they’re all gone too.

You're alone.

So what do you do?

You do the worst possible thing. You start Googling.

And suddenly, every symptom lines up perfectly. Fatigue. Nausea. Dizziness. Loss of appetite.

Sitting on the bathroom floor phone gripped tight in your hands, you stare at the search results until the words blur together.

The answer is simple. You need to take a pregnancy test.

But you don’t move. You don’t get up. You just sit there, legs curled up to your chest, heart hammering in your ears.

What if it’s positive? What if it’s not? What if—

You squeeze your eyes shut.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’re overreacting. You tell yourself to wait it out.

But no matter how many times you try to push it away, the what if won’t leave you alone.

And deep down, you already know you won’t be able to breathe until you know for sure.

So you make the appointment. And then you drive yourself there. Alone.

The waiting room is small, sterile, and too quiet. You sit stiffly in one of the plastic chairs, phone gripped tight in your hands. You refresh your notifications. Again. Again. Hoping for an update.

Nothing.

You swallow hard, tapping your foot against the floor. The walls feel too close, the air too heavy, and for a second, you consider just walking out.

Maybe it really is just stress.

But before you can make up your mind, a nurse calls your name.

You force yourself to stand, legs unsteady as you follow her back. The blood pressure cuff tightens around your arm, the pulse oximeter clips onto your finger, and you try not to wince when she frowns at the numbers.

“Heart rate’s a little high,” she notes.

You swallow. “Yeah. That’s probably just—” You hesitate, glancing away. “I’ve been anxious.”

She nods, scribbles something on the chart. “What brings you in today?”

You exhale slowly. “I haven’t been feeling great. Lightheaded. Nauseous. My appetite is weird. And, um… I’ve been having some stomach pain.”

The nurse hums, nodding along, but then her next question knocks the air from your lungs.

“Could you be pregnant?”

You freeze.

Your first instinct is to say no. You’re on birth control. You’re careful. This shouldn’t even be a question.

But you’re late. And you do feel off. And there’s that sliver of doubt you haven’t been able to shake.

So instead, you hesitate.

“Maybe.” Your voice is small, unsteady.

She nods again, like she hears that answer all the time, and scribbles another note before setting the clipboard aside.

“We’ll do a test,” she says gently. “Just to be sure.”

And then you’re left alone in the exam room, staring at the speckled tile floor, hands twisted in your lap, heart hammering against your ribs.

You tell yourself it’s fine. You tell yourself you’ll handle it, whatever it turns out to be. But no matter how many times you try to convince yourself, your hands are still shaking as you wait for the results.

Alone.

The knock on the door is soft, but it makes you jump.

The nurse steps back inside, glancing at the chart in her hands. “Your test was negative.”

You exhale. Your shoulders dropping, lungs finally expanding. But it’s not a relief. Not really.

Because nothing has changed. Jake is still gone. You’re still waiting. You’re still alone in this.

Your fingers curl against the paper lining of the exam table, the crinkle loud in the silent room. You should feel better. This should ease something. But all it does is leave a hollow ache in your chest.

Because the fear is still there. The uncertainty. The realization that for one brief, terrifying moment, you’d considered what this could have meant.

You press your lips together, nodding vaguely as the nurse talks. She is going on about something. You think she might be recommending rest and hydration. And there’s something about stress management.

You barely hear her.

Because all you can think about is Jake.

How much you miss him. How much you need him to come home. And how utterly terrified you are that he won’t.

By the time you’re walking out of Urgent Care, stepping into the cool night air, the weight of it all crashes down on you.

You wrap your arms around yourself, blinking hard against the sting behind your eyes.

You don’t want to be alone in this anymore.

But for now?

You have no choice.

* * * * *

It happens when you’re least expecting it.

You’re at The Hard Deck, nursing a drink that you don’t really want, when Nat slides onto the stool next to you. She greets you casually, like she always does, but something in her expression shifts when she gets a good look at you.

"You look like hell," she says.

You huff a laugh. "Feel like it too."

She leans in slightly, voice lower. "Jake’s back."

The words hit like a sucker punch to the ribs. You blink. Swallow. 

“What?”

“Got back a few days ago.” 

She says it so easily, like it’s nothing. Like it’s not the most important thing you’ve heard in weeks.

Your fingers tighten around your glass. A few days. Jake’s been here. Alive. Breathing. Walking around San Diego like everything is normal. And he didn’t tell you.

The realization stings. You force yourself to breathe through it, to keep your face neutral as you take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

Nat studies you, like she can hear all the things you don’t say.

If it meant anything to him. If that night, the things unsaid, the way you held onto him meant something, wouldn’t he have reached out?

Wouldn’t he have wanted to see you?

You tell yourself you don’t care. That it doesn’t matter.

But deep down, it does.

Because while he’s been fine walking around, acting like it was just another mission, just another day, you’ve been going through hell.

And now? You don’t know what to do with that.

So you don’t tell him right away. Not about Urgent Care. Not about the nights you spent staring at the ceiling, sick with worry.

But the moment you see him later that night? All of it comes rushing back.

The moment you spot him across the bar, your heart slams against your ribs.

Jake looks exactly the same. Same cocky smile. Same easy confidence. Same damn twinkle in his eye as he laughs at something Coyote says, a beer dangling from his fingers like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

Like he didn’t just vanish for three months. Like you didn’t spend sleepless nights wondering if he’d ever make it home. Like that night…the way you curled into him, the way you needed him meant absolutely nothing.

You wait. Wait for him to look over. To acknowledge you. To do something. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t even glance your way.

Your stomach twists, but you shove the feeling down. Maybe this is your answer. Maybe you were the only one who spent the last three months thinking about that night.

Maybe it was nothing to him.

If he’s going to act like this never meant anything, like you’re just another face in the crowd then fine.

You can act like that, too.

You tell yourself you won’t look again, but your gaze betrays you. Every few minutes, your eyes flick to where he stands. And every damn time, you catch him already looking.

A half second too long. Just enough to make your pulse stutter.

But neither of you move. Neither of you say a word.

Hours pass like this stolen glances, fleeting eye contact, both of you waiting for the other to be the first to break.

"You know he asked about you, right?" Natasha says, nudging your arm as she slides into the seat beside you.

You blink. “What?”

“While we were deployed,” Bradley adds from across the table. “Not all the time, but enough.” He shrugs. “It meant something to him. That night you went home with him.”

Your chest tightens, but you shake your head. “If it meant something, he would’ve reached out.”

Bradley gives you a look. “He just got back.”

“It’s been three days,” you counter.

“Maybe he thought you would reach out,” Natasha offers.

You scoff, leaning back in your chair. “Well, then I guess we’re at a stalemate.”

They exchange a glance, and then Bradley huffs, shaking his head. “Fine. Be stubborn. But you’ll never know unless you talk to him.”

Natasha smirks, tipping her glass toward Jake’s direction. “And for the record? He hasn’t stopped looking at you all night.”

Your breath catches, but you force yourself to keep your expression neutral. You won’t be the first to move. You won’t. The ball is in his court. It’s his move.

But somewhere between your resolve and your next drink, you realize that if you don’t talk to him tonight you’ll regret it.

So you stand and start making your way over to him before you can overthink it or talk yourself out of it.

Jake spots you coming the second you stan. By the time you come to a stop in front of him he’s already turned towards you, his beer poised halfway to his lips.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. Then, he exhales. “Wanna step outside?”

You hesitate, but only for a second. “Yeah.”

The night air is cooler than you expect, a welcome contrast to the warmth inside. The sounds of the bar fade slightly as you both step onto the patio, stopping near the railing.

Jake leans against it, looking over at you. “How’ve you been?”

You don’t answer. You just wrap your arms around yourself, and that—more than words—tells him everything he needs to know.

His jaw tightens. He looks away for a beat, then nods, exhaling softly. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”

Silence stretches between you.

Jake shifts, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, quietly he says,“I would’ve called. Sooner, I mean. But I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me.”

You let out a small, humorless laugh. “I spent the last three months thinking about that night. Wondering if you would come back home.”

“Were you really that worried about me?”

You let out a small humorless laugh. Then before you can second guess it and change your mind you just say it. “I was late.”

Jake turns fully toward you now, his brows drawing together. “Late? Like…”

Your throat feels tight, but you push through. “Yeah. And you…you weren’t here…none of you were.”

Your eyes are locked on the wooden planks of the patio below you. But you still hear the audible inhale of air that Jake takes. 

He clears his throat before he says anything. His voice is quiet when he finally speaks. “So are you…”

You shake your head. “No.”

Jake exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Shit.”

Neither of you speak for a few minutes. Then he shifts closer to you. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that the warmth of him brushes against you.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

You glance away from him, your eyes look out past the sand at the water and the horizon as the last remnants of the sun dipped below the edge of the horizon.

You take a deep breath and then look over at Jake. Your eyes meet his, and for the first time tonight, you let him in. You let him see the fear, the uncertainty, the weight and pressure that you’ve been carrying around for the last three months.

“I guess I didn’t know what you’d say,” you admit, your voice barely a whisper.

Jake goes silent again. And you feel the way the air shifts between you, the way his eyes stay locked on yours but his mouth doesn’t move. Your stomach twists. Your hands start to shake. And suddenly it’s too much.

The weight of the last three months. The waiting. The worrying. The wondering if you’d ever see him again.

You feel your chest tighten. You need to get out of here. Before he can see the way your breathing picks up, before he can see you break, you take a step back. Then another.

Jake doesn’t move.

You turn to go but before you can take another step, his hand closes gently around your wrist.

“Wait.”

His voice is quiet but firm. Steady.

You freeze.

“Just…wait.”

His grip is light, barely holding onto you, like he’s afraid if he pulls too hard, you’ll slip right through his fingers.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to breathe through the lump in your throat. “Jake, I can’t—”

“Please.”

That single word makes you stop. There’s something there in his voice…something raw.

Slowly, hesitantly, you turn back around.

Jake watches you, jaw tight, something heavy in his gaze. His fingers loosen, but don’t let go.

“I didn’t know,” he says finally, voice rough. “I swear to God, I didn’t know.”

You swallow hard. “I know.”

He nods, but his brows furrow, like that’s not enough. Like he needs you to really believe it.

His thumb brushes over your wrist absently, a slow, grounding motion. “I wouldn’t have left you alone with…that.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.Because part of you believes him. And part of you doesn’t know what to do with that.

Jake takes a breath. “Come sit with me?”

Your instinct is to say no. To run. To protect yourself before he can hurt you again. But when you meet his eyes, all you see is sincerity.And maybe you’re too tired to fight him anymore.

So you nod.

Jake leads you to one of the patio benches, waiting until you sit before he lowers himself beside you.

For a moment, neither of you say anything. The sounds of the bar filter through the open doors, but out here it feels quieter.

“I should’ve called you when I got back,” he admits, voice low.

You blink at him. “You think?”

Jake exhales through his nose, shaking his head at himself. “I thought about you. More than I probably should’ve.” He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Nat and Rooster were ready to throttle me with how much I talked about you.”

Your heart stutters. “Then why didn’t you—”

“Because I was scared,” he cuts in, meeting your gaze. “Scared I’d come back and you’d tell me that night didn’t mean anything. That I didn’t mean anything.”

Your lips part, stunned into silence.

Jake laughs softly, shaking his head. “Turns out, I’m an idiot.”

You watch him, the raw honesty in his expression, the vulnerability he rarely lets show.

You take a steadying breath, forcing yourself to ask the question that’s been haunting you since the morning after you last saw him.

“That night…” Your voice comes out softer than you intend, barely audible over the distant hum of the bar. “Did it mean anything? To you?”

Jake’s eyes snap to yours, something unreadable flickering across his face. For a moment, he just looks at you, like he’s weighing his answer.

“Yeah.” Jake exhales, running a hand through his hair before settling his gaze back on you. “It meant too much.”

Your breath catches. “Jake—”

“I thought about it,” he continues, voice steady but raw. “More times than I should admit. But I convinced myself it was better to leave it alone. That if I reached out, you’d tell me it was a mistake.” He lets out a dry laugh. “Hell, I figured you probably regretted it the second it happened.”

You shake your head instantly, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “I didn’t.”

You swallow hard, hands gripping the edge of the bench. “I never regretted it,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

Silence settles between you, thick and weighted.

Jake watches you like he’s searching for something—like he’s waiting for permission to believe you. Then, slowly, he leans in, elbows on his knees, voice quieter now.

"So where does that leave us?"

You don’t know.

All you know is that after months of silence, of doubt, of wondering—Jake is here. Right in front of you.

And maybe that’s enough.

[vandme12]

This has been rotting in my head for so long, how would the KC cast react to a powerful figure Mc? Ronin added mc because he just thought they were a writer needing inspiration, but what if they were actually a big influential figure in politics, media etc? Maybe they’ve hired Misaki before to get rid of someone? Maybe V knows them from charity meetings? How would it all unfold?

I really loved writing this! Whoever asked, Please ask me more head canons! The concept, would be they're a powerful "person" who usually gets people to kill off "bad" people! This is my longest head canon!

Ronin Beaufort!

At first, you were just a fun little distraction. Some writer looking for inspiration in the darkest parts of the world? Yeah, yeah, he’s heard that one before. But you were flirty, sharp, and a little too comfortable around him, which made you interesting.

So, he let you stick around. Took you to some bloody, brutal places, spun his words like knives, toyed with you just to see if you’d flinch.

But you didn’t.

You kept up. You even pushed back.

And damn it, he loved that.

You made things fun.

So fun, in fact, that he didn’t question it. Didn’t stop to wonder how you were able to navigate his world so easily, how you had this natural charisma that could turn heads, how your words carried weight in a way that felt… important.

He didn’t put the pieces together—until he saw your face on the news.

He’s at some dive bar, half-watching the TV, when he sees it. Some big political scandal. Some business shake-up. And right there, center screen, is you.

Your name. Your title. Your power.

His brain short-circuits.

He just stares for a good five seconds, drink frozen halfway to his lips.

“What.”

Immediate, sharp, loud laughter.

“Oh, what the FUCK?! You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

He’s laughing so hard he slaps the bar. The bartender jumps. Other people in the bar look at him like he’s crazy.

Because of course. Of course, the one person he’s been dragging into the worst places, letting into his world, kissing, touching, —

Is actually one of the most powerful people in the world.

The moment he gets his laughter under control, he’s grinning. Big. Sharp. Wild.

“Well, well, well. Ain’t this a fuckin’ surprise.”

The next time he sees you? Oh, he is not letting you live this down.

He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, smirking like the devil himself.

“Sooo, babe. Anythin’ you wanna tell me? Y’know, like—what the fuck?”

If you try to act casual about it? He grabs your chin, tilts your head up, and just grins.

“Nah, nah, don’t gimme that. You mean to tell me I’ve been callin’ you ‘sweetheart’ and sneakin’ you into crime scenes, when I should’ve been callin’ you Boss?”

If you flirt back? Oh, he eats that shit up.

“Ohoho, you’re playin’ dangerous now, darlin’. You know what happens to people who turn me on and surprise me? Bad, bad things.”

He’s so into this.

Like, obnoxiously into it.

He starts calling you titles sarcastically.

“Ahh, my beloved CEO, let me open the door for ya.”

“Oh no, did my precious politician have a rough day? C’mere, lemme make it all better.”

“D’you think world leaders would shit themselves if they knew you were makin’ out with a serial killer? ‘Cause that’s funny as hell.”

But beneath the teasing? Oh, he’s obsessed.

He already thought you were a perfect match for him, but now?

Now, you’re not just smart. Not just dangerous in your own way.

You’re untouchable.

Bottom line? He is so in love with you it’s disgusting.

You’re powerful, you’re dangerous, and you’re his.

And that? That’s all he ever needed to know..

“So, what’s the play here, sweetheart? You gonna bring me down? Put me in the headlines? C’mon, gimme a scandal—make it a good one.”

If you tell him you have no intention of exposing him, that you’re here for your own reasons, he’s intrigued.

“Ahhh, so you’re just a little freak, huh? Love that for you.”

“So, tell me, baby—how’s it feel, bein’ the most dangerous person in the room for once?”

And when you smirk and say, “I’m always the most dangerous person in the room,”—Oh.

Oh, he loves you. Because it’s true, isn’t it? Ronin might be a killer, but you—you have real power. The kind of power that doesn’t need a knife to cut people down. AND that? That’s hot as hell.

Misaki

At first, Misaki thought you were just some random writer that Ronin picked up for fun. Maybe you were looking for inspiration in the darkest corners of the world, and hey, Misaki could respect that.

Until, one day, they’re watching TV in their bunker, shoveling cup noodles into their mouth, and—

Your face is on the news.

Immediate choking.

They nearly drop the noodles.

They stare.

Blink once. Twice.

Wait. What the fuck.

They scramble for the remote, turn the volume up, and suddenly, their world is spinning.

"HOLD ON—"

Because there you are, center screen, name plastered in bold letters. Some scandal, some massive political shift, some media shake-up—and at the heart of it all? You.

The person they’ve been flirting with. The person they’ve been spending nights with in calls.

"WAIT, WAIT, WAIT, BACK THE HELL UP—!"

They’re gripping their head, pacing their bunker, absolutely spiraling.

“You mean—you mean to tell me I’ve been flirting with someone who can LITERALLY change the world?! Oh my god—oh my god, I’m so broke, I can’t handle this—"

The next time they see you? They’re standing there, arms crossed, clearly trying to look intimidating but failing miserably because their face is still stuck in pure existential crisis mode.

“Sooo. You got anythin’ you wanna tell me, boss?”

If you just smirk and go, “Oh? You didn’t know?”

They groan loudly.

"OF COURSE I DIDN’T KNOW, YOU JERK! Oh my god, I was out here thinking you were some struggling writer, and now you’re telling me you could probably buy my entire life with a single check?!"

Cue another breakdown.

And if you’ve hired them before? Oh. Oh, that’s interesting.

“Hold on—wait, wait, wait. You’re telling me I’ve been talking to one of my clients this whole time?!”

They go through a full existential crisis.

But once the initial shock wears off? They’re intrigued.

“Okay, okay, but real talk—why the hell are you hanging out with us? You could be anywhere, doing anything, running the world, and yet, you’re here. Why?”

If you flirt with them? They malfunction.

“H-Hey, don’t distract me! This is serious! You—wait, what do you mean I look cute when I’m panicking?! That’s—STOP.”

But deep down? They FEEL KYAH!

If you say something like “Because I like you”

—They malfunction.“LIES. YOU’RE A LIAR. DON’T SAY THINGS LIKE THAT—”

But deep down? They’re kicking their feet.Because holy shit.

Someone that important thinks they’re important.

It’s the worst and best thing to ever happen to them.

Angel

At first, Angel just thought you were another charismatic, ambitious person—someone drawn into her orbit the way most people were. She didn’t question it too much. You were charming, clever, and played along with her public persona so well it was almost addictive.

Then, one day, she sees you on the news. Not in the background. Not as a guest. You are the news.

Maybe you’re a political powerhouse, a media mogul, an elite CEO—whatever it is, you’re big.

Cue an instant mental shutdown. She’s staring at the screen, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, and for once in her life, completely speechless.

“… Wait, wait, wait. What?!”

First, she replays every conversation the two of you have ever had, wondering how she missed the signs.

Second, she assumes you just didn’t tell her because… well, why would you? She wouldn’t have believed it anyway.

Third? Immediate concern.

Because she knows powerful people. She’s been around them.

And most of them are monsters.

But you? You’ve always been kind to her. Sweet. Playful. The same way she is with you.

…So why does this still feel like a dream?

When you finally come home, Angel is sitting on the couch, arms crossed, a frown on her lips—but her eyes are soft.

"Sooo…" she tilts her head. "Is this the part where you tell me I’ve been secretly dating royalty, or—?"

You try to explain, but she just leans closer.

"And when, exactly, were you gonna tell me that you're kind of a big deal?"

Pout. Full pout.

But she’s not actually mad. Just incredibly intrigued.

The more she learns about your influence, the more protective she gets.

She knows the price of power. She knows the pressure. The weight. The expectations.

And she knows what it’s like to need approval.

She’s quiet for a moment before reaching for your hand.

“Are you happy?” Her voice is gentle.

You nod, but she studies your face carefully, trying to find the cracks.

“You promise?”

If you squeeze her hand, reassure her? She melts.

She wants to believe you. So badly.

Angel is soft with you in ways she isn’t with the world.

She may be a perfectionist. She may be needy for attention. But with you?

She doesn’t have to perform.

She can just… be.

And that’s a rare, precious thing.

And she will make fun of you for the way you talk in "serious mode."

"Ooooh, look at you~ all professional and intimidating~"

But deep down? She’s proud.

She just expresses it through teasing.

She knows power changes people.

And she worries about that. About what it might do to you.

But she also loves you too much to let it push her away.

“No matter how big or important you are…” she murmurs, curling up against you. “You’re still mine.”

And honestly? There’s no one else in the world she’d rather love.

V

The moment, you open your video feed to see him for the first time he knows who you are.

V already knows who you are.

He’s rich. Powerful. Connected. No one reaches his radar without him knowing everything about them.

So when your face appears on his screen, he isn’t surprised.

What surprises him is the fact that you recognize him, too.

You tilt your head, lips curling into an amused smirk.

“Mr Valentin Viljoen, right? We’ve met before.”

His eyes narrow slightly. “Yes. And you are—”

“I'm your kind!” you interrupt smoothly, leaning back in your chair. “Without ever spilling a drop of blood.”

That makes him pause.

His posture tenses. Just for a second.

Because… that’s not wrong.

He’s seen your name in places that matter—a ghost behind the curtains of power.

You don’t get blood on your hands.

You hire people to do it for you.

At first, he’s wary.

You are the kind of person he hunts. The kind who orchestrates death while keeping their hands clean.

The kind that believes their cause justifies the means.

And yet…

You don’t silence everyone. You don’t kill for profit or ego.

You kill corrupt politician. The ones who slip through the cracks of the system. Like him.

He watches you closely after that.

“You play God,” he says one night, his voice measured. “Deciding who lives and who dies.”

You meet his gaze, unshaken.

“So do you.”

The two of you challenge each other constantly.

You push him to see the necessity of what you do.

He pushes you to consider the weight of it.

“Your assassins are no different than the people I kill,” he says coldly. “They’re just a tool you use to maintain control.”

You hum thoughtfully. “And you’re just a weapon that wields itself.”

Silence.

A game of chess with no clear winner.

But there’s one thing he can’t ignore.

You don’t kill the innocent.

Your network, your power—it’s built on a foundation of purpose.

And whether he likes it or not…

You’re not the villain he expected.

He watches you more than he should.

He listens to how smoothly you speak, how effortlessly you manipulate a conversation without a single lie.

He hates how drawn he is to it.

“You play dangerous games,” he mutters one night.

You smirk. “So do you.”

And he hates that you’re right.

He’s used to keeping his distance.

But you make that impossible.

The sharp way you tease him, the way you dance on the edge of his moral code.

It gets under his skin.

“What the hell are you?” you ask one night, head tilted. “A hero? A killer?”

His lips press into a thin line.

“What are you?” he counters.

It happens slowly.

At first, he tells himself he’s just keeping an eye on you.

But then it becomes habit.

Seeking your voice, waiting for your messages, analyzing your movements.

He finds himself protecting you before he even realizes why.

Because the moment someone tries to take you down?

He’s already one step ahead.

“You should leave,” he mutters after taking care of a hitman sent after you. “Disappear.”

You laugh softly. “And let them win?”

His jaw clenches.

He should walk away from you.

But he won’t.

Because for all his righteousness…

He can’t let you go.

[rafesbuzzcutseason]

chasing city lights

chapter 15 - welcome cara

synopsis: you move to new york to start fresh, hoping to find comfort in the city’s atmosphere. that’s when you meet sarah cameron, where she takes you to a concert and you catch sight of the lead band member, rafe cameron. it only takes a moment for you to realize you’re captivated by him. as sarah helps you navigate your new life in the city, you start to get pulled deeper into rafe's world—the music, the fame, the chaos. the more you get to know him, the more you realise that rafe is not just the rock star he seems to be. he’s wrestling with his own demons, and the last thing he needs is someone like you getting close.

masterlist

cw: alcohol, language

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

after you had picked up cara from the airport, it had been nothing but non stop talking trying to catch up on everything. she was desperate to meet your friends, but more importantly, your boyfriend who you hadn't stopped talking about.

"so when am i going to get to meet the famous rafe?" cara asked you with raised eyebrows.

"well actually," you started, "we're all going out tonight so you'll get to meet everyone!"

"my first night out in new york" she giggled, "better make it a good one."

after many outfit changes and singing along to your pre's playlist it was time to go. you ordered an uber and texted the girls you were on your way.

a short drive later, and you pulled up at the bar where the boys were already waiting.

"hi baby." rafe came up to you and gave you a quick kiss.

"rafe cameron its an honour to meet you." cara said, pulling him into an unwanted hug.

jj coughed beside you, and cara's attention turned to him, "i'm jj." he said, offering his hand.

"i know." she replied confidently, as topper and rafe gave each other a look.

you laughed nervously, taking rafe’s hand as you led the group inside. "alright, let's get drinks before cara here starts plotting my demise," you joked, hoping to lighten the mood.

the rest of the girls eventually arrived, and you felt a wash of relief washing over you, unsure why.

"y/n!!" sarah screamed, pulling you into a massive hug. "and you must be cara. it's so nice to finally meet you."

"and you! y/n talks about you guys all the time." she said, turning to the rest of the girls.

you all head inside, rafe's hand never leaving your waist, more protective than usual. you all headed towards the bar to take some shots, vowing to a good night.

as the night went on however, you couldn't shake the feeling that cara's presence was more than just about catching up. every time rafe said something she would laugh or casually touch his arm, only leading him to hold a stronger grip on you. you felt a tiny prickle of unease. you brushed it off as paranoia, after all, it was just your best friend being friendly. right?

the drinks were flowing, and everyone was dancing and having a good time, but you couldn’t help but notice how cara kept inching closer to rafe and stand next to him when there was plenty of space, and every time you glanced their way, her hand would rest casually on his shoulder or his arm, lingering for just a moment too long.

you tried to shake it off, but the pit in your stomach kept growing. rafe hadn’t seemed to notice, he was too busy looking at you.

you excused yourself for a bathroom break, needing to clear your head, sarah and kie following after you.

"are you ok y/n? you seem off." kie asked you.

"yeah yeah i'm fine just needed a break." you muttered.

"you're lying." sarah responded.

"no i'm not." you said defensively.

"well you're not leaving this bathroom until you tell us the truth." she replied.

"i think i'm over reacting." you started, "but i know how obsessed cara is with city lights and i just have this weird feeling."

"jealously" lie smirked.

sarah gave her a light smack, "shut up kie. not helping" she said seriously.

"it's probably fine." you carried on, "but she's just acting different. i've known her almost my whole life and she's hardly paying attention to me and all on rafe."

"ok well she might just be fangirling a little, y'know? i wouldn't take it as anything to worry about." sarah squeezed your hand.

"you're right, as always." you said.

"let's get back out there okay? we've got you." kie smiled as you made your way out.

as you walked back into the main room, your eyes caught cara and rafe in deep conversation.

"are you sure she knows how lucky she is to have you?" cara's voice asked, dripping with something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

rafe chuckled, clearly not picking up on the tension. "she does, yeah. i love her. she's the one for me."

you stopped in your tracks, heart racing.

cara’s laugh echoed in your ears, "i bet she is."

shaking your head, you took a deep breath, you couldn’t let the insecurities take hold. not tonight, not when you were supposed to be having fun.

you turned the corner, walking right up to them, plastering on a smile. "hey, what are you two plotting over here?"

both of them froze for a moment, cara's expression shifting briefly, "just talking about how great rafe is. he really knows how to treat a girl, doesn’t he?"

rafe looked between the two of you, a confused frown crossing his face, but he shrugged. "yeah, i guess i do." he smiled at you, his arm instinctively pulling you close.

you tried to ignore the knot in your stomach as you followed rafe back into the crowd, but as the night wore on, it became harder to deny what you were feeling. cara wasn’t just here to meet your friends and have fun. she was here to make her move.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ ☾. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

a/n: you guys were right of course... we hate cara and you are all clever for having a bad gut feeling hehhe

taglist: @hoefordrewstarkey @marleymarleymarleymarley @bee-43 @cherryhoneybabe @skye-44 @drewrry @drewrry  @yesterdaysproblemm @pogueprincesa @dylsdaily @rafeysworldim19 @valyrianflower @kaiparkerwifes@judesgfirl@4urvalidation @chillgal135 @drewstarkeyslover @yesshewrites1 @amterasuu@babykhloutofthisworld@blushmimi  @moonywhisp3rs @rafeysworldim19 @marleymarleymarleymarley @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account@vcnillafairy@bambii1i @sammyrenae68 @kittenjujusblog @bambii1i @thesunflowersociety @slvthrsmimi

[nevernonline]

✧.* tired boy; kmg

synopsis: two strangers are navigating a complicated, unspoken connection. after struggling with their emotions and pushing each other away, a late-night confrontation forces them to finally face what they've been avoiding. as they open up and confront their fears, they discover that sometimes, just being together is enough.

paring: mingyu x fem! reader. 

genre:strangers2whatever  

warning/s:mentions of substances (alcohol), some swearing, sexy stuff, minors dni!

word count: 8.9k

content: . non-idol idolings, mingyu is going thru life, plays bass ykyk.

note: based on one of my fav songs at the moment!! tired boy by sunday (1994) LISTEN!! not rlly edited prob weird typos, xo. also i never really write smut so it's prob insane, pls lol.

Y/n’s favorite coffee shop was humming with quiet energy. The soft clinking of cups, students clicking their pens studying for their exams, and a faint noise of acoustic music playing overhead. Outside, the city was flickering just as softly as the energy inside, cars slowly passing by the window. 

Y/n was sitting in her usual seat next to the window, her sketchbook propped open in front of her on the stainless table, her lukewarm coffee sitting basically finished under her smudged fingers. She was always drawn to capturing moments, the glances between strangers, the way the steam hits off of coffee cups, the rain droplets on the window catching the light of the passing cars. But, tonight not just something but someone caught her eye. A boy sitting alone across the room. 

She doesn’t know his name, just that he was always here at this hour, sitting in the same corner, looking obviously exhausted. His hoodie pulled over his head just so his eyes can see enough to grab the cup of black coffee swirling in front of him, He flicks the space bar on his laptop every so often almost like he’s trying to make sure his eyes stay open. 

Her pencil was moving almost on instinct. She began sketching the slope of his shoulders, his head dipped under his hood. He was fighting off sleep like he was in an action movie. 

Y/n bit her cheek between her teeth, slightly hesitating. She never really focused on one person this much, but something about him had her curiosity piqued. She started asking herself questions like who is he? Why is he constantly tired? 

She shook her head, pushing all her thoughts away as she packed up her things neatly. Just as she was about to push the door open, she glanced back. The boy was completely passed out, cheeks resting on his hand, the way it sat pushed out was almost childlike.

The staff was cleaning up around him, and the barista gave y/n a glance like she was unsure what to do this close to closing time. 

Without hesitating, Y/n pulled the scarf from her neck. A soft, chunky knit, the color fading over the years since her grandmother first gave it to her. She looked at him for a fleeting second before draping it over his shoulders, which made him stir, but not wake completely. 

She lingered for a moment longer, before heading to the door, the cold air cutting though her skin as she walked through the quiet streets. 

The night after, Y/n returned to her regular spot, her sketchbook tucked under her arm, expecting it to be the same as always. She was someone who craved consistency. But just as she settled into her seat, someone was standing at the corner of her table. 

When she turned her chin up– and there he was. 

He was standing in front of her, scarf in hand, his eyes scanning her face like he was trying to figure out if he knew her or not. 

“This is yours, yeah?” His voice was deep, a little scratchy like he had just been out all night. 

Y/n just blinked at him, almost dumbfounded. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. You just looked a little cold.” 

For a split second, he just stared at her as if he didn’t know how to react to people perceiving him. A smile crept onto his face that didn't reach his tired eyes. 

“Thanks.” he said, rubbing his fingers over the fabric. “You didn’t have to do that.” 

Y/n just shrugged. “It was no big deal.” 

His gaze shot down to her sketchbook open on the table. Which is when he sees it. Well, sees himself. 

Sketched over and over in different types of poses. Head dropped forward, fingers wrapped around his paper cup, his eyes always half closed out of exhaustion. 

Y/n caught her breath in her throat once she realized what he was looking at. She slammed the book shut, her face turning red. 

Mingyu tilts his head, amusement in his expression. “Do I always look that dead, or was that just a bad night?”

Y/N sighed deeply, covering her face with her hands. “That’s embarrassing. Sorry. You just have an interesting face.”

Mingyu let out a quiet laugh, plopping into the seat across from her without invitation. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She peeks at him through her fingers. He’s still smiling, but now that she’s looking closer, she notices the way his hands shook slightly as he picks up his coffee. The way he rolls his shoulders like he’s trying to shake off exhaustion that clings too tightly.

“So. Wait. Do you ever sleep?” she blurts out before she can stop herself.

Mingyu chuckles, leaning back in his chair. “Apparently not as much as I should.”

Y/N tilts her head. “Why not?”

He exhales, running a hand through his messy hair. “Not sure. I just have too much going on. School. Work.. Life.” He shrugs. “I guess I just got used to always being tired.”

Something about the way he says it makes Y/N’s chest hurt. Like he’s led himself to exhaustion and just got so comfortable being there. 

She studied him for a moment before grabbing her pencil. “Maybe you just need to start slowing down,” she murmurs, sketching the way the shadows play across his face.

Mingyu watches her, intrigued. “You’re telling me that, but I get the feeling you need to hear that advice too. Tell me honestly, do you ever slow down?”

Y/N pauses, her pencil hovering over the page. “Ha. No. Not really,” she admits softly.

For a second, they just sit there, the world around them fading into the background. Two strangers, both caught in their own kind of exhaustion, both drawn to each other’s quiet presence.

The next few weeks slip by in an unspoken rhythm. Y/N and Mingyu never make official plans to meet, but somehow, they always find themselves in the same places—at the café, at the library, on quiet walks through the city.

At first, their conversations are light, drifting between small talk and teasing remarks. But something about the way they talk feels different. There’s no rush, no need to fill the silence with empty words.

Y/N keeps sketching him, sometimes without realizing it. Her pages filled up with small details. Things like his fingers against his coffee cup, the way his eyes soften when he laughs, the exhaustion that never fully leaves his expression.

And Mingyu keeps showing up. Always tired, always carrying too much on his shoulders, but somehow lighter when he’s with her, not letting the need for sleep keep him away from being engaged in their conversations.

One night, they find themselves outside after the café closed, standing under the glow of a streetlamp. The cities noise softly around them. Somehow it feels like the world has slowed down just for them.

“You should get some more sleep.” Y/N says, arms crossed against the cold.

Mingyu huffs out a laugh, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It’s not,” she admits. “But neither is running on empty.”

Mingyu looks at her then, something unreadable in his tired eyes. She wonders if he’ll brush her off, if he’ll crack another joke and pretend it doesn’t matter.

Instead, he sighs, tilting his head back to stare at the stars. “I know.”

They don’t say anything else after that. The silence between them is enough.

Despite their growing bond, Y/N still doesn’t know much about Mingyu’s life outside these quiet moments they share. She just knows he’s always busy. between school and his part-time job.he barely has time to breathe. But she doesn’t know the full weight of it. Until one night.

It’s nearly past midnight, and she was walking home when she heard it. The deep strum of a bass guitar, the muffled sound of laughter and conversation spilling from a tiny bar on the corner of the street.

Curious, she peeks inside. And there, on a dimly lit stage, is Mingyu.

He looks different here. More alive, somehow. His fingers move effortlessly over the strings, his head nodding slightly to the beat. She can tell he’s still tired, but it was like he was feeding off the music, letting it carry him.

When the set ends, Mingyu steps off the stage, wiping sweat from his brow and freezes when he sees her.

“No way you’re here,” he says, his voice laced with surprise.

Y/N shrugs, stuffing her hands into her coat pockets. “I was just walking by. I didn’t know you played.”

Mingyu chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, well. It’s kind of my thing to destress or whatever I guess.”

Y/N tilts her head. “You look really happy up there.”

For a second, he doesn’t answer. Then, with a small, tired smile, he says, “I think it’s the only time I forget how exhausted I am.”

She doesn’t say it out loud, but she wonders why he has to be this tired in the first place? Why does he have to work himself to the bone just to chase something that makes him happy?

Mingyu just looks into her eyes, setting the jacket he has in his hands down on the bar stool next to him. “Too tired for a beer?” 

Y/n took his cue, pulling the zipper down on her own coat, “Never.” 

Mingyu smiled brightly, waving over the bartender with a familiar ease. The place is cozy, buzzing with the low hum of conversation and the occasional clatter of glass against wood. A stark contrast to the stage, where only moments ago, he seemed weightless, like the world had loosened its grip on him, even if just for a song or two.

Y/N slides onto the barstool next to him, resting her elbows on the counter. “So, how long have you been doing this?” she asks as he hands her a beer.

He takes a sip from his own glass, the color of the beer catching the light. “A while. I started in college, mostly to blow off steam. Then, I guess, it just stuck.”

She watches him, the way his fingers tap idly against the pint, a rhythm still flowing through him. “You’re actually really good, you know.” 

Mingyu chuckles, shaking his head. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Y/N.”

She smirks, raising her bottle in mock surrender. “Shut up. I’m serious. You looked different up there. I don’t know, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for you.”

His smile falters for just a second, something passing through his eyes before he looks away. “Yeah, well. Maybe that’s the problem.”

Y/N’s eyebrows moved together. “What do you mean?”

Mingyu exhales through his nose, setting his drink down with a soft clink. “I don’t know? If something makes you feel that alive, shouldn’t it be something that you do all the time? Instead of just sneaking it in between everything else?”

She studies him, the way his shoulders slump slightly, the weight he carries settling back into place now.

“You could,” she says carefully. “Do it all the time, I mean.”

He laughs, but there’s no real humor in it. “That’s not how life works, Y/N.”

She wants to argue. Wants to tell him that he deserves more than exhaustion disguised as success. That he should get to chase something that makes his heart race for the right reasons. But she knows he’s right. 

Instead, she clicks her bottle against his, offering a small smile. “Well, at least for tonight, you gotta do what you love.”

Mingyu looks at her, really looks at her, and for a moment, he seems lighter.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, taking another sip. 

After a while of quiet togetherness and another drink Mingyu stretches, groaning. “We should probably head out before I pass out on the floor and your forced to take me out of here”

Y/N nodded. Then, before she can overthink it she blurts out, “Do you want to walk with me?”

Mingyu grins. “Yeah, of course.”

Mingyu isn’t sure when he started looking forward to seeing Y/N.

Maybe it’s the way she sketches absentmindedly while talking, her fingers always smudged with charcoal or covered in ink pen. Or the way she watches him like she actually sees him, past the exhaustion, past the half-hearted jokes, past the front he’s so used to putting up.

She notices things about him that no one else does, like how he taps his fingers against the table when he’s thinking. How he always checks his phone, not because he’s expecting a text, but because he’s used to managing his time down to the last second.Y/N notices all of it. And that terrifies him a little, Because nobody else ever has. 

The exhaustion isn't just from sleepless nights. It's deeper than that.

Mingyu grew up in a house where love was quiet but responsibilities were loud. His parents worked long hours, and as the eldest, he learned to carry burdens without being asked. His younger siblings needed him, and he never wanted to let them down.

So he learned how to balance everything, school, work, family, and now, his music.

His band’s gigs pay little, but it’s the only thing that makes him feel alive. And school? It’s a constant pressure, an expectation he can’t afford to fail.

He doesn’t remember the last time he did something just for himself. And yet, with Y/N, things feel different. She doesn’t ask him for anything. She doesn’t expect him to be strong or put together. She just exists beside him, and somehow, that’s enough.

The night air is crisp, biting at their skin as they stand on the empty sidewalk. The street lights flickering above them, casting long shadows that stretch ahead.

They don’t talk at first, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. It’s the kind of quiet that feels safe.

Mingyu walks beside Y/N with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his breaths coming out in soft puffs of air. She notices the way his steps fall into rhythm with hers.

Somewhere down the street, a cat darts between parked cars. A neon sign hums from a convenience store, buzzing against the stillness. The city feels different at this hour like it’s softer, slower, like time has stretched just for them.

Mingyu lets out a heavy sigh, tilting his head up to the night sky. “Do you ever feel like the world only stops when no one else is awake?”

Y/N glances at him. “Yeah, totally,” she admits. “I think that’s why I like walking at night.”

Mingyu looked at her nodding. “Me too. It’s the only time I don’t feel like I have to be somewhere. Like I finally have no responsibilities”

She doesn’t ask where he always has to be, he’s never really told her, not in words, but she’s pieced together the parts of him he doesn’t say out loud. The late nights, the constant exhaustion, the weight he carries like he doesn’t know how to put it down.

They reach a small bridge overlooking the river, the water below reflecting the dim city lights. Mingyu stops, leaning against the railing, and Y/N follows, their elbows brushing.

“Have you ever thought about leaving?” he asks suddenly, his voice softer now.

Y/N tilts her head. “Leaving where?”

He shrugs. “Here. The city. Everything.”

She studies him for a moment, noting the way his jaw tenses, the way his fingers tap absentmindedly against the railing.

“I haven’t thought about it much I guess. Do you?” she asks instead.

Mingyu exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Sometimes. But it’s not that easy.”

“Why not?”

His lips pressed together, and for a second, Y/N assumed he wouldn't answer. But then he sighs, running a hand through his dark hair.

“My family needs me. My job fucking sucks other than it pays good. My band is really the only thing that makes me feel like I’m not just running in place.” He pauses, then huffs out another laugh, this one almost bitter. “And even if I wanted to leave, I wouldn’t know where to go.”

Y/N watches him carefully, taking in the exhaustion that’s always just beneath the surface, the way he speaks like he’s already decided that this is all there is for him and she hates it, because he doesn’t think he deserves more.

She looks down at her hands, her fingers curling around the strap of her bag. “If you could go anywhere, where would it be?”

Mingyu doesn’t answer right away. Finally, he says, “Somewhere quiet. Somewhere I can just rest without feeling guilty about it.”

She doesn’t know how to tell him that he deserves that. That he deserves more than just stolen moments of peace in the dead of night.

So instead, she says, “You should rest more.”

Mingyu snorts, turning to her with a tired grin. “You say that like it’s easy.”

“It’s fucking not,” she admits, echoing their conversation from nights ago. “But neither is running on empty forever.”

Mingyu studies her, his eyes searching, like he’s trying to find something in her words that he’s too afraid to believe.

Before she can stop herself, she reaches out, fingers brushing against his sleeve. It’s barely a touch, barely anything at all. But it’s enough because Mingyu doesn’t pull away.

He just looks at her, really looks at her, and something shifts in the air between them.

Something quiet. Something fragile. Something that feels like a question neither of them are ready to ask.

The wind blows, cold against her skin, but Y/N doesn’t feel it because her lingering touch turned into Mingyu pulling her in for a tight hug, unprovoked, just needing to feel someone else's weight against him so he doesn’t feel like he’s alone. 

All she feels is the warmth of him, standing against her, and the weight of something unspoken settling between them.

Mingyu is the first to pull away, but only slightly. His hands still rest against her waist, his fingers twitching slightly like he doesn’t quite want to let go.

Y/N swallows. She should say something. She should.

But all she does is look up at him, taking in the way his face looks softer in the dim glow of the streetlights.

His eyes flicker between hers. There’s something unreadable in them. Something vulnerable, heavy, something like I don’t know what to do with you.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

Y/N looks at him, momentarily thrown. “For what?”

Mingyu exhales a breathy laugh, barely there. “Hell, I don’t know. For being like this, I guess.”

A flicker of something sharp twists in her chest. She doesn’t like the way he says that. Like it’s something to apologize for. Like he’s too much.

She shakes her head. “What? Don’t be.”

Mingyu watches her, hesitant.

She tightens her grip on his sleeves before she can second-guess it. “Really. I mean it.”

For a moment, it looks like he’s about to argue. But then—something shifts.

His shoulders relax. His hands finally drop away, but not before one of his fingers brushes against hers, so subtle she almost misses it. Almost.

Neither of them mention the hug as they start walking again.

The silence isn’t heavy, but it’s charged, sparkling with something unspoken. Mingyu’s hands stay shoved in his pockets, and Y/N swears she catches him sneaking glances at her when he thinks she isn’t looking. But, she doesn’t call him out on it. Because if she does then she’ll have to acknowledge the way she’s doing the exact same thing.

The way she already knows that this—whatever this is—is going to ruin her. Because they’re standing at the edge of something, balancing on the line between just friends and something else entirely And at some point, one of them is going to have to make a choice.

They don’t talk about the hug, not that night, not the next day, not even the week after.

It lingers. It lingers in the way Mingyu lets their shoulders brush when they walk, just barely but intentionally. In the way Y/N catches him watching her, his gaze lingering a second too long before he looks away. In this way their conversations feel a little quieter, but way heavier, like they’re both waiting for something to be said and neither of them is willing to say it first. Yet, nothing changes.

They still meet up at the café, still slip into their usual seats, still act like they aren’t circling around something bigger than themselves.

Until one night, Mingyu says something that makes the ground shift all over again.

It’s past midnight when they leave the café, the air crisp and filled with the promise of snow.

Mingyu stretches his arms above his head, groaning dramatically. “I swear, if I sit in one place for too long, I will turn into stone.”

Y/N snorts, adjusting her bag strap. “That’s the consequence you’re paying for living on four hours of sleep.”

Mingyu smiles, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Walk me home?”

It’s the first time he’s asked. Usually, it’s the other way around.

Y/N blinks, caught off guard. “Yeah,” she says, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Of fucking course.”

Mingyu doesn’t say anything, he just smiles, small and easy. But something in the way he looks at her makes her stomach twist. 

It’s different from before. The silence between them isn’t awkward, but it’s different, like it’s more aware. Y/N notices the way the streetlights cast shadows across Mingyu’s face, making his features look softer. She notices the way he occasionally glances over at her, like he’s making sure she’s still there. She notices everything.

They turn a corner, the city stretching out in front of them, and then—

“Have you ever thought about moving in with someone?” Mingyu asks suddenly.

Y/N stops walking. “What?”

Mingyu keeps walking a few more steps before realizing she isn’t beside him anymore. He turns back, expression unreadable. “Like, a roommate. Just so life isn’t so shitty. So I don’t feel like I’m talking to my walls all the time.”

Y/N blinks, something uneasy curling in her chest. “Are you thinking about moving?”

Mingyu shrugs, but it’s too casual. “Maybe. Just a thought.”

And maybe she’s imagining it, but there’s something about the way he says it. Something careful, something hesitant that makes it feel like a test. Like he’s waiting to see how she’ll react.

Y/N tries to play it cool, even as her stomach twists itself into knots. “Well, you do talk to your walls way too much.”

Mingyu snorts, shaking his head. “Not the point, but thanks.”

She hesitates, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets. “Who would you move in with?”

Mingyu tilts his head, looking at her in a way that makes her heart stutter.

“I don’t know,” he says. “You?”

The world feels like it tilts.

Y/N’s brain short-circuits, words catching in her throat.

Mingyu, to his credit, doesn’t look away. He just watches her, waiting, like he’s finally pushing them toward the edge of whatever the hell this is.

Like he’s daring her to say something.

Her mouth goes dry. “Mingyu—”

He holds up his hands before she can finish. “Relax, it was just a question.”

But it wasn’t.

They both know that.

It wasn’t just a question. It was a shift. A crack in the careful distance they’ve been keeping. 

And Y/N hates how much she wants to say yes.

Because it wouldn’t just be moving in together. It would be stepping into something irreversible. It would be waking up to him down the hall. It would be seeing him at his most unfiltered. Groggy and messy-haired in the morning, frustrated when his songs don’t come out right, exhausted when the world is too much.

It would be too much.

She wants it more than she should.

Mingyu is still watching her, still waiting. But then he exhales a laugh, shakes his head like he’s brushing it off. “Never mind,” he says, smiling like it’s nothing. “Forget I said anything.”

And before she can stop him, before she can even think—

He turns, shoving his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets, and starts walking again.

Y/N stays frozen in place, watching his back, her heart hammering in her chest.

And suddenly, she realizes they’re not just standing at the edge of something anymore. They’re already falling off of it. 

Y/n couldn’t sleep that night. She lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying Mingyu’s words over and over.

"You?"

Like it was just a passing thought. Like it didn’t matter. But it did.

Because Mingyu doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean never like that. Not with that look in his eyes, like he was testing the waters, waiting to see if she would reach for his outstretched hand or step away completely.

And she had frozen.

She hadn’t said no. But she also hadn’t said yes. And now, in the absence of a real answer, the tension between them has become something unbearable.

The next time they see each other, it’s like walking on cracked ice. Mingyu is still Mingyu. Still teasing, still dramatic, still slouched in their usual café booth like he owns the place. But Y/N notices the small things.

He hesitates before speaking. He never used to do that. But now, there’s a split second where he seems to be thinking a lot before he says something, like he’s making sure he doesn’t push too hard. He doesn’t meet her eyes as much. Normally, he looks at her like she’s the most interesting thing in the room. Now, his gaze flickers, like he’s afraid of what he might find if he holds it for too long. He doesn’t touch her. No casual elbows nudging against hers. No fingers brushing when he hands her a drink. No leaning into her space just to get a reaction.

And it’s driving Y/N insane. Because she didn’t ask for this shift. She didn’t ask for things to change.

But on the other hand  maybe she did. Maybe she’s the one who started this. Letting him in too close, letting herself want. Maybe this is the consequence.

They were sitting in the café, both pretending everything was fine. Y/N is sketching not because she’s focused, but because it gives her something to do with her hands. Mingyu is nursing his drink, stirring it absently with his straw, eyes distant.

It’s so fucking weird. So weird that Y/N can’t take it anymore.

She sighs, setting down her pencil. “Okay, seriously. Are we gonna talk about it, or are we just gonna sit here acting like a bunch of fucking idiots forever?”

Mingyu blinks. “Talk about what?”

Y/N levels him with a look. “You know what.”

He looks at her for a second, then huffs a short laugh. “You mean the thing where I made a dumb joke, and now you’re acting like I proposed or something?”

Y/N’s stomach clenches. So that’s how he wants to play it.

She exhales sharply, leaning back. “Right. A joke. Got it.”

Mingyu’s lips pressed together. He shifts in his seat, looking away, tapping his fingers against the side of his cup. He’s annoyed.

Which is so frustrating, because he’s the one who dropped that on her. He’s the one who changed things.

She shakes her head, staring down at her sketchbook, suddenly not in the mood to draw anything at all. “Forget I said anything.”

Mingyu lets out a quiet breath, then mutters, “You’re really good at that.”

Y/N frowns. “What?”

Mingyu shakes his head, his jaw tight. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything.

And just like that, the tension is worse than before.

“No, tell me what you mean. I’m curious. What am I good at?” 

“Acting like everything is perfectly fine, when you know it’s not just to save someone’s feelings. 

Because the thing is Mingyu has always been a little dramatic. A little loud. A little too much in the best way. But now? Now, he holds things back. And most of all, she catches the silences.

Not the comfortable ones they used to have, when they could sit together without saying anything.

These silences are different.

These are the kind that stretch too long, that make the air feel too heavy, that make Y/N feel like they’re both waiting for something. But she doesn’t know what. Or maybe she does.Maybe she’s just scared to admit it.

And Y/N isn’t sure she’s ready to acknowledge what he’s saying. But she’s also not sure she can keep pretending. Not when every second with him feels like teetering on the edge of something bigger than both of them. Not when she’s starting to realize she doesn’t want to go back to normal.

She just wants him.

Mingyu snapped her out of her thoughts as he cleared his throat. “What are you drawing?”

It’s a simple question. Easy. Casual. Safe.

But Y/N hesitates for a second too long. “Nothing,” she finally says, flipping the page before he can see.

She doesn’t know why she does it.

Mingyu blinks. “Did you just hide it from me?”

She shrugs, feigning indifference. “Maybe.”

“Wow.” He leans back, crossing his arms. “I see how it is. Keeping secrets now.” 

He’s teasing. He’s joking. But there’s something underneath his voice, something too close to real, that makes her stomach twist.

Y/N forces a smirk. “I keep lots of secrets, Mingyu. You should know that by now.”

Mingyu’s expression flickers, just for a second. Like he knows she’s not just talking about her sketchbook.

And just like that, the air between them shifts.

It’s ridiculous, really. How hard they’re trying. How much effort they’re putting into not talking about the thing sitting between them like a third person at the table.

Y/N picks up her drink. Mingyu taps his fingers against the table. Neither of them says anything.

It’s unbearable.

Finally, Mingyu exhales sharply, shaking his head. “This is fucking stupid.”

Y/N frowns. “What is?”

“This.” He gestures between them, frustration creeping into his voice. “We’re acting like strangers. Or worse like we’re scared of each other.”

She swallows. “I’m not scared of you.”

Mingyu stares at her for a long moment. 

“Then why do you keep pulling away?”

The words knock the breath out of her. Because he noticed. Of course he did.

Y/N opens her mouth, ready to say something  but nothing comes out.

Because what the fuck is she supposed to say?

That she is scared? That she doesn’t know how to deal with the fact that every second with him feels like standing at the edge of something huge?

That she wants to reach for him but she’s afraid of what happens next?

Mingyu watches her struggle for an answer. Then, like he can’t stand it anymore, he shakes his head and grabs his cup.

“I gotta go.”

Y/N’s stomach sinks. “Mingyu—”

But he’s already pushing back his chair, already standing, already looking at her with this unreadable expression that makes her chest ache.

He doesn’t wait for her to finish.

He just walks away.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N watches him leave without knowing if he’s going to come back.

Y/N doesn’t think. She just moves.

By the time she registers that she’s already out the café doors, Mingyu is halfway down the street, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets, his long strides carrying him away too fast.

But she’s not letting him go. Not like this.

“Mingyu!”

He doesn’t stop. She quickens her pace, her heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with running.

“Mingyu, wait!”

This time, he hesitates. Slows just a little. But he doesn’t turn around.

Y/N reaches him, grabbing his sleeve. Not hard, just enough to make him stop. And he does.

But when he finally looks at her, she almost wishes he hadn’t. Because his face, his eyes, they’re filled with something that looks a lot like exhaustion. Like she’s just making things worse.

“What do you want, Y/N?” His voice isn’t sharp, but it isn’t soft either. It’s just annoying, a little tired, like he was on the brink of crying.

Y/N lets go of his sleeve. She suddenly feels too small. Too uncertain.

“I don’t know,” she admits, breathless. “I just didn’t want to leave things like that.”

Mingyu exhales through his nose, glancing away like he’s trying to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret.

 But Y/N can’t stop now. Not when she can feel the weight of everything about to slip through her fingers.

“I wasn’t pulling away because I wanted to,” she says quickly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to—” She stops, swallowing hard.

Mingyu’s jaw clenches. “How to what, Y/N?”

How to let herself want him. How to cross the line they’ve been balancing on for so long.

How to be brave when she’s spent so much time being scared.

She doesn’t say any of that.

She just stands there, staring at him, hoping he’ll understand anyway.

But Mingyu laughs, shaking his head. And it’s not a happy laugh.

“See, this is the fucking problem,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t know what you want, but you don’t want me to leave either. You keep acting like I’m the only one making this complicated.”

Y/N’s stomach twists. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” Mingyu huffs out a breath, looking at her with something so close to frustration it makes her chest ache. “Because from where I’m standing, it feels like I’m the only one willing to be honest about what this is.”

Y/N’s throat tightens. “Mingyu… Please, come on.”

But he just sighs, looking away like he’s already done with the conversation.

“I just need some space,” he says finally, voice quieter. “Okay?”

Y/N doesn’t know what to say.

Because no, it’s not okay. It feels awful. It feels like she’s drowning in something she doesn’t know how to fix.

But she nods anyway.

Because what else can she do?

Mingyu gives her one last unreadable look. Then he turns and walks away.

And this time, Y/N doesn’t chase him.

She just stands there, watching him disappear into the cold.

And for the first time, she wonders if she’s already lost him.

She tells herself she’s fine.

That it’s better this way.

That space is what he wanted, so space is what she’ll give him.

But the thing is space doesn’t feel like space.

It doesn't just feeling like silence. It feels like an absence. It feels like she lost something before she even had the chance to enjoy it.

Mingyu doesn’t text her.

She tells herself she won’t text him first.

But then she catches herself opening their messages, staring at the last thing he sent days ago, rereading his words like they might suddenly change if she looks at them long enough.

She still goes to the café. At first, she tells herself it’s just a habit. But every time the door opens, she looks up, heart stuttering with something stupid and desperate.

But Mingyu doesn’t come.

 Meanwhile, Mingyu is drowning in his own thoughts. He knows he’s being unfair.Knows that walking away like that probably hurt her. Knows that if he just let himself talk to her. Like really talk to her, maybe they wouldn’t be here.

But the truth is, he’s exhausted. Not just physically, but in a way that sits deep in his bones.He’s tired of waiting for her to figure things out. Because he knows how he feels.Has known for months, maybe even years. And he’s tried to be patient. He’s tried to let her set the pace.

But he’s not sure how much longer he can stand being stuck in this limbo, where he feels like he’s reaching for her but she’s too afraid to reach back.

So he throws himself into other things. He buries himself in school, in work, in distractions that don’t really work. 

And yet, no matter what he does he still thinks about her. About how she looked at him that night, eyes wide with something he wanted to believe was more than guilt .About how she reached for him, even when she was scared.About how, for a second, he thought she might actually say what he’s been waiting to hear.

But she hadn’t and Mingyu was so tired of waiting.

Y/N finally stopped going to the cafe.

It’s stupid, really. But she can’t take it anymore. Sitting at what became their table, staring at the empty seat across from her, waiting for someone who isn’t coming.

Mingyu stops checking his phone.

He tells himself it’s better not to hope. That if she really wanted to fix things, she would have come after him again.

Neither of them realizes how stubborn they’re being.

Neither of them realizes that the only thing keeping them apart is themselves.

Eventually, something has to break. The only question is who will break first?

It happens late at night.

The kind of late where the world feels softer, quieter. Where the only thing keeping Y/N company is the dull glow of her phone screen and the restless thoughts she’s been trying to ignore.

She’s not sure what finally pushes her over the edge.

Maybe it’s the silence stretching too long. Maybe it’s the fact that no matter how much space they’ve given each other, the distance still feels unbearable.Or maybe she’s just done pretending like this doesn’t hurt.

Her fingers hover over the screen.

She types. Deletes. Types again. And Again. 

Y/N doesn’t think too much about it. She doesn’t send the text, instead grabs her jacket, leaves her apartment without a second thought, and heads straight to Mingyu’s place.

She hasn’t seen him in a long time, and the silence between them has stretched long enough to suffocate. She can’t keep waiting for him to make the first move. But, she’s too tired of wondering if he’s waiting for her to fix everything.

When she reaches his door, she hesitates. Her heart is pounding in her chest, her breath shallow, but she doesn't let herself second-guess it.

Without knocking, she checks his door handle and it opens just enough to step inside.

“Mingyu?” Her voice echoes in the quiet of his apartment.

He appears from the hallway, looking surprised, and a little relieved?

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice a little too calm for how his eyes betray him.

“I couldn’t wait anymore,” she says, her words tumbling out without her thinking. "I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to keep pretending like everything’s fine when it’s not. Also, please fucking lock your doors.”

He steps back, letting her inside, but the distance between them feels like it’s growing instead of shrinking. She’s not sure what to do with the way he’s looking at her like he’s still holding something back, like he’s afraid to give her all of himself.

“Mingyu…”

But before she can say anything else, he speaks first, his voice rough.

“You don’t get it, Y/N,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I’m tired of waiting, of hoping that you will be ready. I’ve been patient. But you keep pushing me away.”

Y/N takes a step toward him, heart racing in her chest. “I know. I know I’ve been scared. I’ve been terrified of how much you mean to me.”

Mingyu looks at her, his brow furrowed, clearly conflicted. “Then why didn’t you tell me that sooner?”

She takes a breath, gathering the courage she’s been holding back for so long. “Because I don’t know how to let myself feel like this. I don’t know how to trust myself when it comes to you. But I can’t keep pretending that I’m fine without you.”

There’s a long pause. Then, Mingyu sighs, his voice quieter. “I don’t want to be something you’re scared of. But I can’t keep being afraid of how much you mean to me either.”

Y/N steps closer, slowly, almost like she’s testing the waters. She reaches out to him, her fingers brushing lightly against his chest, and for the first time in days, she feels like she’s not alone in this anymore.

He doesn’t pull away. In fact, he pulls her in closer, wrapping his arms around her tightly. She presses her face into his chest, feeling the warmth of him, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, everything feels right

Without thinking, Y/N reaches up, her other hand finding its place against the back of his head, her fingers curling into his slightly wet head of hair.

And before she can second-guess herself, she leans in.

It’s not graceful. It’s not perfect. But it’s real. Just like them.

Her lips find him with a desperation that surprises even her, like she’s finally letting go of everything she’s been holding back. Like she’s giving him everything she’s been too afraid to say.

And for a moment, Mingyu is still unsure. But he kisses her back.

It’s slow at first, tentative, as if both of them are trying to figure out if this is real. If it’s okay to feel this much. But soon, the kiss deepens, the tension that’s been building between them exploding like a spark igniting a fire.

When they finally pull away, their breaths are uneven, their foreheads pressed together.

“I’m sorry,” Y/N says, barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry it took me this long to get here.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at her, his chest rising and falling with each breath.

And then, quietly, his lips curl into a smile.

“It’s okay,” he says, his voice a whisper too. “I think we both needed to get here.”

And just like that, the distance between them is gone. 

Mingyu leaned down and kissed her again, this time less shy and more excited. 

Y/n let her hands run down the nape of his neck to his shoulders, she dug her nails into them slowly as their kiss got deeper. 

Mingyu led her inside further, not letting their bodies part for even a moment, they stumbled along onto his couch, he sat with perfect posture to let her body be able to climb perfectly onto his lap, straddling both of his thighs. 

His lips moved further down her body now lingering under her chin and down to her neck, nipping at her skin. Making her quiet voice much louder now. 

He pulled at the bottom seam of her hoodie and slipped it over her head, revealing her small white tank top under, no bra straps in sight which made him even more excited at this moment. 

Neither of them asked for permission, but they knew they didn’t have to, they both waited for this moment, both waited to feel the warmth of their connection through actual skin to skin contact. 

The connection of their lips stopping for only a moment for heavy breaths and seconds to take Mingyu to her level and pulled off his freshly cleaned t-shirt off his body, revealing his golden physique underneath. 

The soft glow of hit candles and city lights coming through the window like stars was just enough to see his eyes, look deeply into them before Y/n curled her legs onto the floor to face him on her knees. 

She rested the palms of her hands on his inner thighs and slowly cascaded them closer and closer to the busting waistband of his sweats, lucky she had caught him after his shower. No underwear were underneath so his penis was easily accessible under the soft grey material. 

As her face leaned in closer and closer to the tip of his penis sticking out over his waistband, she blew a small bit of air onto him, making him quiver under her touch. 

Mingyu moaned loudly, almost begging her to come closer, as close as they have ever been. 

She wanted to continue teasing him, wanted to see him beg for her to touch him, but he was impatient, he took her tied up hair into his hands and pulled her face directly onto him, rubbing it over the still slightly clothed erection he had. 

Her head still in his grasp made it hard for her to move, but luckily her hands had full range of motion, in the time he went back to rub her against him one more time she had managed to release his throbbing erection from inside its prison. Once she got his pants down just enough, she stuck her tongue out licking from the bottom all the way to the tip that had already been slightly wet from all the excitement he was feeling. 

Mingyu still gripped her hair bucked up into her mouth as she placed her lips around him tightly and finally, unable to stop the motion of his body from doing so. Y/n wanted to take this slower at first, but knowing how excited he was made her change speed, letting him thrust into her mouth, her knees digging into his soft white carpet, letting her hands glide along him in the moments her throat was clear from the penetration. 

Mingyu pulled at her top from above her, still licking and sucking on his dick, indicating her to pull it off which she happily took a moment of breath and pulled it over her head, her hair tie coming out at the same time letting her long hair cascaded down her back, more for him to grip onto. 

As she went back to go down on him, he wagged his finger no and held her hand, pulling her up to stand from the floor, still seated on the couch taking in her body as she stood between his legs, his throbbing erection in between them. 

Mingyu slipped his fingers into the sides of her waistband and gently pulled her pants down, leaving her light blue panties on, touching at the crotch of them slightly, feeling how warm she was beneath them, he let his hands run traces around her body before pulling her back onto his lap, his dick rubbing against her still clothed center. 

Y/n now back straddling him, dick behind her butt, vagina pressed up against his stomach, rolled against him as he sucked at her skin, cascading kisses all the way down to her sternum before taking one of her breasts in his mouth. 

She couldn’t wait anymore, couldn’t hold on to the storm brewing inside of her. 

Not being able to get over how good it felt to have him exploring places he’s never been before, she let out deep heavy breaths on his skin, her head tipping back to let out what sounded like a few swear words, Mingyu stopped, pulling her head down to kiss her again, he spit in her mouth, mixing it with hers. 

One of Y/ns hands reached down to her clit, rubbing it slightly through her underwear, not being able to take not being touched by him any further. 

Mingyu caught her hand, “Not yet. That’s for me.” 

Y/n out of breath just nodded, letting him pick her up, hands under her underwear touching her bare ass and carrying her into his room. 

Mingyu placed her on the edge of his perfectly made bed, white covers and all, telling her to lay back as his hands made their way to her panties. 

He rubbed two of his fingers over them, never touching her skin underneath, driving her further to the edge. 

His hands came to the top of them at her hips, he slid them down carefully, hoping to make her shiver underneath his touch. 

Y/n’s legs quivered, she held them so tightly together, hoping to keep herself in check and not blow this moment their having right here, before they even reach the point of penetration. Mingyu grazed the head of his penis from her clit straight down to her entrance point. 

Y/n tried her hardest to push herself onto him, she needed more, she needed it deeper, she needed him inside and was too desperate for it. 

Mingyu stopped teasing her, holding her hips down with a menacing look on his face. 

“I was going to be nice, but you’re not being a good girl.” 

Y/n whimpered not sure what to expect, but all she knew is she needed it to happen right now. 

Mingyu didn’t prepare her, he was one of his words, with no warning he thrusted into her fully and all at once, filling her up with the length of him, letting it sit there slightly to see what she would do. 

Y/n just clenched her pussy around him, no words needed. 

His thrusting started off fast, rapid, almost like rabbits, he put his full potential into penetrating her, needing to pump as hard and fast as he could, watching the person he fell in love with squirm under him. 

 When he was finally reaching his point of release. He laid his body down onto her further, pressing his chest up as he slowly pumped into her, feeling her hard nipples grace over his body with every movement. 

“Mingyu.. I-” Y/n was out of breath she could barely speak, her voice raspy from whining and moaning. 

Mingyu just brushed her hair out of her face, giving her a knowing look and letting a small kiss fall onto her lips. “Let yourself go, y/n.” 

And she did, nearly at the same time he ejaculated, their bodily fluids mixing, spilling out between her thighs. 

Mingyu grabbed a towel, bringing it over to her. Warm water now wiping away the cum sitting between her legs. 

/N’s eyes widened, and she let out a small laugh, her chest vibrating from it. She shifted beside him, clearly amused by the shift in tone. “Wow. Words do come back to haunt you.”

He smirked, teasing. “No. Just some good advice, from a very, very good friend.”

“Friend?” Y/N shot him a playful glare, slapping his thigh lightly. “Do friends fuck like that?”

Mingyu laughed, genuinely amused. “Just me and my friends.”

“Since when did you get to be a smart ass?”

“Since dealing with you.” He grinned, eyes glinting with something soft yet teasing. “I had to put up some sort of facade. I never thought you actually liked me, so—”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, turning her head to look at him fully. “What? You didn’t?”

Mingyu shrugged, looking away for a second, like he was gathering his thoughts. “Look, at first, the day we were at the bar, I had a feeling. But I didn’t know for sure. Then after the day in the cafe when we got into that argument, I was so certain you didn’t like me back. I left the ball in your court, and then I went back to the shop about a week later, but I didn’t see you. I thought maybe I had read it wrong. Maybe I'll never see you again.”

Y/N’s heart squeezed at his words. He’d really been unsure, thinking she hadn’t felt the same way. And here she was, unable to deny how much she’d felt for him all along.

She turned toward him more fully now, sitting up a little in the bed, her voice gentle but serious. “Mingyu, I never meant to make you feel like that. I’ve just been scared, too, okay? Scared of what it all meant, scared of losing what we had.”

Mingyu’s expression softened. He sat up slightly, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “You never had to be scared, Y/N. But I get it. I was too.”

Y/N let herself lean into his touch, eyes closing briefly as she felt that familiar warmth spread through her chest.

Then, after a beat, she whispered, “But I’m here now. And I don’t want to go anywhere. I just didn't know how to ask for this.”

Mingyu chuckled softly, pulling her gently into his chest. “You didn’t have to. You never did. I just needed you to show up. You always did, even when you thought you didn’t.”

They fell silent again, but this time, the quiet wasn’t filled with hesitation. It was peaceful. The weight between them had shifted; there were no more walls, no more missteps, just the understanding that they didn’t have to figure everything out.

They were finally here. Finally at peace. Together.

[selene-writes]

You-Me-Us

AHHHH Hey guys! There's lots of Logan craze on here thought I would try writing. Should this be a series? Its short and there's lot of places to go from here.

You had known Logan for fifteen years—technically, that had been your entire life, or at least as much of it as you could remember. Your earliest memory was of his face peering down at you with a mixture of concern and relief. You were in some sort of ruined laboratory, your body aching with a pain you couldn’t fully comprehend. You didn’t even know your own name at the time. Instead, you went by Artemis, a name you had chosen for yourself, though Logan often called you "bub."

Like Logan, you were a mutant, endowed with the gift of regeneration. This ability made it impossible to determine your exact age. In addition to your regenerative powers, you possessed the unique ability to manipulate atoms. This rare skill granted you control over all elements, a power that made you incredibly unique and powerful.

You had both decided to stick together, united in your quest to uncover the truth about who you were and why you had ended up there. It was evident that something significant had happened to both of you, something that had rendered you both invincible. Despite the mysteries that surrounded your origins, the bond between you and Logan only grew throughout time.

As time passed, the nature of your relationship evolved in ways neither of you had anticipated. Somehow, amidst the chaos and the search for answers, you had found yourselves tumbling into bed with each other. While the physical connection had become a part of your lives, nothing had fundamentally changed, and you never talked about it.

Even as you navigated your complicated relationship, your focus remained on the shared mission: to piece together the truth about your past and understand the full extent of your powers. 

Everything happened so quickly. You and Logan were in the middle of your usual routine—hitting various bars and grifting people for money. It was a familiar pattern, one that had become almost comforting in its predictability. But that night, things took an unexpected turn.

A teenager—no older than seventeen—had sneaked into the back of your car. Her name was Rogue, and despite your initial reluctance, you and Logan ended up arguing about what to do with her. Logan, ever the soft-hearted one despite his gruff exterior, eventually agreed to give her a ride, though it was clear he would have done so regardless of your persuasion.

The situation quickly spiraled out of control. Out of nowhere—a caveman-like brute—attacked you. Logan was momentarily knocked out in the chaos, leaving you and Rogue vulnerable. The man’s strength was overwhelming, and before you could react, he hurled you against a tree. The impact was brutal, and you felt a jarring “crack” as your head struck the trunk.

You crumpled to the ground, falling into the snow. As the world around you dimmed, the last thing you saw was the silhouettes of the figures moving closer, their shapes growing more defined against the stark whiteness of the snow.

You woke with a groan, sitting up abruptly as if propelled by instinct. Your body felt as good as new, fully healed from the earlier impact. Instinctively, you scanned your surroundings, your mind racing with concern for Logan and his whereabouts.

As your eyes adjusted to the dim light, you noticed a bald man sitting in a wheelchair across the room. Despite his lack of visible movement, his voice seemed to come from all around you, resonating in your mind as much as your ears.

“There is no need to panic,” he said, his lips remaining still, not in sync with his words.

You tensed, on high alert. “How are you doing that?” you demanded, your voice edged with suspicion.

The bald man responded aloud this time, “How do we do anything? We’re mutants.”

Your frustration boiled over. “Where am I? Where is Logan?”

The man’s calm demeanor didn’t waver. “He is safe… you both are.” He began to wheel closer; his movements deliberate and smooth. “As for where you are… You are at my academy, where we help those like you. You are with… the X-Men.”

[heliosunny]

Hi hi, I read your lucky egg yuan x reader and thought a bond system was super creative!! So I have a request!!

Can I request a streamer/general Jing yuan playing an otome game where you/the reader are one of the love interests? And he was absolutely obsessed with character!reader that he’d literally drop so much money on the game, but one day, after maybe a poisoning incident, he ends up isekai’d into said otome game. Reader has a favoribility bar and everything and he does all the quests to raise your bar 🤭🤭. And and! If a love interest hits 100% favoribility in the game, they go yandere so maybe a bit of soft yan y/n?

It would also be super interesting to see yuan scheme everything cuz of his big brain 😌😌

I hope you have a good day and stay hydrated!!!

𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠… 𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐜𝐤, 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫.

[𝙇𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢 𝙤𝙣] Chat: — "Jing Yuan, you’re literally broke because of this game." — "BRO JUST DATE A REAL PERSON." — "He’s already too far gone… let him be." — "Who’s your bias again? (Not that we don’t know lol)." — "Watch him go straight to Y/N and ignore all the others."

The chat scrolled at breakneck speed, but Jing Yuan barely paid attention, his fingers already navigating past the main menu. His voice was smooth, teasing, as he leaned closer to the mic.

“Come now, you all know the answer to that” his lips curling into a smirk. His stream setup was pristine—dual monitors casting a cool glow over his silver hair, the dim lighting making his golden eyes gleam.

The title screen of Astral Regnum shimmered before him, revealing the stunning artwork of the heroes of the kingdom. But his gaze, as always, honed in on the one he cared about most. You.

Chat: — "Damn, he didn’t even LOOK at them LMAO." — "He’s speedrunning a 2D romance with Y/N." — "NPCs crying in the corner."

Jing Yuan chuckled, skipping past the banners of the other love interests like they were mere background noise. “Why waste time?” His voice dipped lower, fond. “Y/N is the only one that matters.”

A swordmaster. A warrior feared on the battlefield, but with a heart that only opened to those they deemed worthy. In the game’s lore, [Y/N] was the blade of the Astral Regnum heroes—a relentless force of nature, cutting down enemies with precision. And yet, their favorability system was notoriously difficult.

That only made it more satisfying when he raised it.

He knew what you liked. What you hated. Every hidden event, every dialogue choice that made your heart skip.

And he had spent—How much money again? He didn’t care.

Tonight, he was going to hit the final 100%.

With a flick of his wrist, he loaded his save file—the one where his favorability with you was already in the high 90s.

The screen faded to black.

…A sharp knock at the door.

Jing Yuan blinked, momentarily snapping out of his immersion. Who the hell—?

His chat reacted instantly.

Chat: — "Uh oh, debt collectors?" — "Jing Yuan’s about to get isekai’d, watch." — "Bet it’s his manager coming to stop his spending spree."

With a lazy sigh, he muted the mic and pushed his chair back. He had just reached for the door when a strange, sharp scent flooded his senses.

His vision blurred.

The last thing he saw was the game screen still glowing on his monitor, your character’s sprite standing there, waiting.

𝐋𝐨𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝…

The first thing he felt was the cold, the way it bit into his skin—so vivid, so unlike the temperature-controlled room he had been in just moments ago. His ears rang with the echo of distant battle cries, the clash of steel, the unmistakable scent of blood.

Jing Yuan opened his eyes. His smirk returned instantly.

He knew exactly where he was.

Above him, the skies of Astral Regnum stretched endlessly, clouds tinged red by the fires of war.

“…I really hit the jackpot, didn’t I?”

A shadow moved in his peripheral vision. He turned just in time to see you- covered in blood, battle-worn eyes feral with focus. Your sword pointed straight at him.

Jing Yuan had always admired you— your presence, your unwavering strength. But seeing you in the flesh, drenched in blood with the weight of battle in your stance?

It was exhilarating.

The tip of your sword hovered just inches from his throat, gleaming under the eerie glow of magic-infused flames.

“Identify yourself.”

Jing Yuan barely resisted the urge to grin. Even in the game, you never trusted strangers easily—it was one of the many things that had made raising your favorability so difficult.

But unlike his first playthrough, he didn’t need to fumble through dialogue choices or waste time figuring out what worked.

He already knew exactly what to do.

He lifted his hands in mock surrender, keeping his posture relaxed despite the threat at his throat. “Ah, forgive me. I seem to have found myself in the middle of a battlefield, and I’d rather not lose my head before I’ve even introduced myself.”

Your eyes narrowed, scanning him like a predator sizing up prey. He knew you were analyzing everything—his stance, his expression, any hint of deception.

Chat would’ve gone wild seeing this. Too bad they weren’t here.

“…You’re not dressed like a soldier” you noted, your grip on the hilt still firm.

He wasn’t. The clothes he wore were a mix of modern and fantasy—game mechanics at work, likely adjusting his form to fit the world. He still had his signature robes, but now they looked more battle-worn, reforged in Astral Regnum’s style.

“Observant, as expected” he mused. “I’m not part of any faction. Just a traveler who seems to have ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Your expression remained unreadable, but the fact that you hadn’t killed him on the spot meant he had already passed the first test.

“Captain!” A voice called from the distance. A scout.

Jing Yuan watched as your gaze flickered between him and the approaching soldier. You had a decision to make—cut him down now, or deal with him later?

The game’s mechanics dictated that you wouldn’t kill someone outright if they weren’t confirmed as a threat. That much, he remembered.

“Tie him up” you ordered.

Jing Yuan barely bit back a chuckle as rough hands grabbed his arms, binding his wrists.

Oh we're doing this route? How fun.

“Smart choice” he murmured as your men hauled him up. “But I do wonder… how long will you be able to keep me restrained?”

You didn’t answer. You only turned your back on him, leading the way toward your war camp.

He didn’t mind starting as a prisoner.

After all— He was still going to reach 100%.

----

Jing Yuan sat calmly, bound at the wrists, as the flickering glow of firelight cast shifting shadows across the war tent. Soldiers bustled outside, sharpening blades, murmuring strategies, unaware that the man they had just captured knew more about their war than they did.

It was strange watching everything unfold in real-time.

Even stranger was seeing you like this—not through a screen, but right in front of him. The real you, expression unreadable as you stood by a large map, analyzing war strategies.

A part of him wanted to watch forever.

But that wasn’t the plan.

You finally turned your gaze to him, those sharp eyes glinting under the lantern light. “You don’t seem particularly concerned about your situation.”

Jing Yuan gave a lazy smile. “Should I be?”

Your soldiers shifted uncomfortably, but you merely crossed your arms. “You’re suspicious. You’re too well-groomed for a lost traveler, and you don’t have the look of a mercenary. Are you a spy?”

“No,... But I might be useful to you.”

One of your officers scoffed. “You expect us to believe that?”

“I expect your Captain to consider it.” His gaze remained on you. “You wouldn’t have kept me alive if you didn’t at least think there was value in hearing me out.”

You didn’t deny it. You're still the same, that calculative and careful one. And yet strangely soft toward those who prove their worth.

He could work with that.

“…Fine” you finally said, tone measured. “You’ll stay here under guard. Prove your worth, or you’ll regret it.”

Jing Yuan chuckled, flexing his fingers slightly. “I thought you weren't the type to threat-”

“Don't test me.”

The chains around Jing Yuan’s wrists weren’t tight enough to hurt, but they were a firm reminder—he was not trusted.

But that was fine.

Because trust could be built.

He watched as you dismissed your soldiers one by one, your fingers ghosting over the map on the table. The battlefield was shifting, and you were at the center of it.

Jing Yuan had watched countless cutscenes of you strategizing like this, studying every small movement, every sharp-eyed decision. But seeing it in person was entirely different.

“You’re staring” you muttered without looking up.

Jing Yuan chuckled. “Nothing, I was just thinking.”

Finally, you glanced at him, arms crossed. “About what?”

“That I can help you win.”

“Oh? And why would a ‘lost traveler’ know anything about war?”

Jing Yuan leaned forward slightly, “Because I know your enemies better than they know themselves.”

That caught your attention.

“Go on”

“Your next battle is in three days. Your enemies will try to flank from the west, but their supplies are running thin. If you push them into a defensive position before they can regroup, you’ll win with minimal casualties.”

“And how exactly would you know that?”

Jing Yuan’s smile didn’t waver. “Does it matter?”

“Fine, I'll test your theory.”

If you followed his strategy, he’d prove his worth.

And when you won?

You’d start to trust him.

The war camp was quieter than usual. Outside, soldiers murmured in low voices, preparing for the upcoming battle.

Jing Yuan stood a few feet away, his hands still bound, watching you with a patient smile.

Just as he was about to speak, the tent flap rustled.

"You're still awake?"

Jing Yuan's smile faltered for the briefest second as another figure stepped inside—one of your close friends. They walked in casually, eyes flickering to Jing Yuan before turning back to you.

Jing Yuan had seen them before, an important side character, someone who frequently appeared in your storyline. But now that he was here, living in this world, they felt like a nuisance.

"I'm reviewing the battle plans again" you replied, rubbing your temples. Your friend sighed, stepping beside you.

"You should rest. You've been at this all day."

Jing Yuan watched as they reached forward, lightly flicking your forehead in a playful manner.

He had never liked this character, even when he played the game. They always lingered too close, always made you smile in ways that should have been reserved for him.

But now?

Now, he was right here, watching them steal your attention.

He could see the way you relaxed around them, how comfortable you were. He knew it was natural—you had a long history together in the game. But that didn’t stop the quiet frustration from simmering beneath his skin.

That should be him.

Jing Yuan let out a soft chuckle, stepping forward slightly, just enough to make his presence known.

“You know,” he mused, tilting his head, “for someone so concerned about their commander’s well-being, you don’t seem too worried about distracting them.”

Your friend raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

Jing Yuan’s smile didn’t waver. “An observer.” He let his gaze linger on your friend a little too long before shifting back to you. “Besides, I don’t think they need to be reminded to rest. They know their limits.”

You let out an amused exhale. “You talk as if you’ve known me for a long time.”

“I just have good instincts.”

Your friend didn’t seem convinced, but they let it slide, instead turning back to you.

Jing Yuan barely heard what they said next. His focus was elsewhere—on the small details.

The way they leaned in when they spoke. The way you didn’t pull away. The way your voice softened, just slightly, in response.

He didn't like it.

But he wouldn’t show it.

----

Jing Yuan was a strategist. Whether in the real world or in this one, he always played to win. Now, you were real. And he would ensure that he was the only one who mattered to you.

The game had always emphasized that actions mattered more than words.

So he made sure every move he made left an impression.

He cooked for you when you were too exhausted after training.

He tended to the wounded, proving he wasn’t just a fighter but someone who cared.

He trained with your soldiers, earning their respect.

He always stayed one step behind you, never overstepping—but never too far away.

And every time you hesitated, every time you looked at him as more than just an outsider, his favorability bar climbed.

[ +15 Favorability ] [ +5 Favorability ] [ +20 Favorability ]

It was slow, steady, but inevitable.

Sure he had made mistakes. Like that one moment where he didn't take your concerns seriously.

"Something’s off about this place" you had murmured, scanning the area. "Maybe, but worrying too much causes wrinkles."

You shot him a look. "Remind me why I even talk to you?"

He laughed. "Because you like me."

At that moment? Not so much. [-15 Favorability]

Or that other time when he was overconfident.

"You should fall back. I’ll handle the rest."

You had scoffed, annoyed. "I don’t need you to protect me."

He shrugged. "Still, wouldn’t want you to get hurt—"

You ignored him and struck the final blow yourself. [-20 Favorability]

Still, everything was carefully choreographed—down to the smallest details. And every time you acknowledged him, every time your gaze lingered just a second longer than before, he knew—

Your favorability bar ticked up.

[ +5 Favorability ] [ +10 Favorability ]

Jing Yuan was patient. But patience had its limits.

When another comrade slung an arm over your shoulder, laughing too freely—his grip on his sword tightened.

When someone dared to flirt with you, his golden eyes flickered with an emotion no one caught.

When you smiled at someone else with the same warmth you gave him, a quiet hum left his lips.

For now, he could hold back.

Because soon, it wouldn’t matter.

Because soon, you wouldn’t even look at anyone else.

----

Jing Yuan never gambled. Because every move has its purpose.

And right now—

Your favorability stood at 75%

It was a beautiful number. But it wasn’t enough.

So, he prepared.

𝐒𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐞: 𝐀𝐜𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠...

The system had always been a passive observer. A tool meant to track your feelings, your reactions, your downfall into love.

But today, it would be more than that.

Today, it would be his weapon.

—— Favorability Shop Opened. Current Balance: [Unlimited] Recommended Purchases:

1️⃣ [Memory Trigger Perfume] – A fragrance designed to evoke past emotions and subconscious attachments. [50,000 pts] 2️⃣ [Heroic Crisis Event] – An orchestrated situation where the player can prove their devotion to the target. [100,000 pts] 3️⃣ [Lingerie Set??? ] – Also a valid strategy.... [25,000 pts] ——

Jing Yuan exhaled slowly, amusement flickering in his gaze as he scrolled past the last item.

I'll save that for later.

For now—he bought the first two.

The memory trigger

The next time you saw him, the scent was already on him.

It wasn’t overwhelming. Just a faint trace. Familiar.

You frowned slightly. “What is that smell?”

Jing Yuan feigned confusion. “Does it bother you?”

“No, it’s just…” You hesitated. Something nagged at you. Something you couldn’t quite grasp.

It reminded you of safety. A feeling you had lost.

And deep down, your heart tightened.

“Maybe you’ve smelled it before” he mused, watching you struggle. “Maybe… it’s something important to you.”

You didn’t respond.

But later that night—long after he had left—you found yourself missing it.

And just like that, your favorability rose to 80%

The Heroic Crisis

Jing Yuan knew you were strong. You didn’t need a savior. You could protect yourself. But even strong people had moments of weakness.

And he was going to be there when it happened.

So, when the system triggered the attack, everything was perfect.

Your instincts kicked in immediately. You dodged, countered, struck back.

But the moment you faltered—

Jing Yuan was there.

His blade met theirs. His body shielded yours.

Blood dripped from his arm, but he barely noticed. His eyes stayed on you.

And then, as if in a trance, your lips parted.

“Jing Yuan…”

Your favorability skyrocketed.

90%.

95%.

----

The fire crackled softly, flickering between the two of you. It wasn’t often that you got quiet moments like this. No battles. Just peace.

And strangely—you didn’t mind his presence.

Jing Yuan sat across from you, his white hair slightly tousled from the night breeze.

“Is there something on my face?”

“N-No..Nothing”

“Then why are you staring?”

“I'm not!”

He chuckled. “Not that I mind.”

You scoffed and looked away, but you didn’t deny it. Truth was.. this felt nice.

Jing Yuan stretched his arms behind his head, letting out a content sigh. “You know, this is rare.”

You glanced at him. “What is?”

He smiled lazily. “Seeing you relaxed.”

“I like it.” His voice was quieter this time. “I like seeing you like this.”

Jing Yuan had always been playful, unpredictable. But tonight—his gaze was softer.

And something inside you stirred.

You cleared your throat, shifting slightly. “It’s... nice.”

“Then let’s have more nights like this.”

Your heart skipped. That's not a bad idea.

----

Jing Yuan knew, step by step, you were falling.

Not yet—not completely. But you were softening.

And tonight, he was going to make sure you fell just a little bit more.

The town was lively even in the late hours. Lanterns swayed overhead, casting warm golden hues over the bustling streets. You walked beside Jing Yuan, carrying a small pouch of supplies for your next journey.

It had been his idea to take a detour here. A little break from the usual battles, something about “enjoying the little things.”

But just as you passed by a fruit stall—

“Hey—!”

You barely registered the blur of motion before your pouch was yanked from your grasp.

A small, ragged figure darted through the crowd, slipping between merchants and customers like a shadow.

Jing Yuan reacted immediately.

“Stay close.”

Then he moved.

You both weaved through the market, dodging carts and startled pedestrians. The thief was fast, but you were faster.

“Persistent little one, aren’t they?”

You didn’t waste breath responding—just focused on cutting off the escape.

And then—a dead end.

The thief skidded to a stop in a dimly lit alleyway, chest heaving.

A boy, no older than ten. Grimy, thin and desperate.

Your pouch dangled from his shaking grip.

Behind him, three younger kids peeked out from behind broken crates, their eyes wide with fear.

He wasn’t stealing for himself. He was trying to feed them.

You felt something in your chest tighten.

Jing Yuan stepped forward—not in anger, but with a sigh.

“Stealing is a bad habit, you know?” His voice was light, almost teasing. “But... I suppose sometimes, there’s no other choice.”

The boy flinched, hugging the pouch close.

“Please...” he whispered. “I—It’s for them.”

Then, to your surprise, he pulled out his own pouch and tossed it to the ground. The coins inside jingled.

“Go buy food” he said simply. “Real food. Not stolen.”

The boy’s eyes darted between the pouch and Jing Yuan, as if expecting some cruel trick.

“You... you mean it?”

Jing Yuan chuckled, ruffling his own hair. “I’m not heartless, you know.”

You stared at him.

The boy hesitated before dropping your pouch and taking Jing Yuan’s instead. Then, with a quick bow, he grabbed the younger kids’ hands and ran.

Silence stretched between you two as you picked up your pouch.

Jing Yuan smiled, tucking his hands behind his head. “Well, that was fun.”

You exhaled, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

He grinned. “Handsome too, right?”

You rolled your eyes—but your heart wasn’t in it.

Because for all his teasing and laziness—Jing Yuan was... kind.

And when he turned to you, golden eyes glinting under the lantern lights—

98%

Almost there.

100%

A quiet chime echoed in the back of Jing Yuan’s mind.

It's done.

You belong to me now.

The favorability bar had maxed out, but he wasn’t foolish enough to expect an immediate, dramatic change. No, your obsession was something that would seep in—gentle, like ink bleeding through parchment.

And oh... he couldn’t wait to see it unfold.

----

The battlefield was long behind you. The mission had gone well, leaving only exhaustion and the quiet hum of victory. Now, beneath the vast night sky, a small fire flickered between you and Jing Yuan.

For once, the silence between you was... comfortable.

He leaned back, arms folded behind his head, watching you.

Watching you watch him.

There was a difference in the way you looked at him now. Before, your gaze was wary—guarded, even when amused.

But now?

Now, your eyes lingered.

His lips curved. “Something on your mind?”

You blinked, but instead of denying it, you simply tilted your head. “You’re... a good person.”

His amusement deepened as he sat up slightly, propping his chin on his hand. “Is that so?”

You hummed in response, shifting closer—not much, just enough that the warmth of the fire wasn’t the only heat between you.

And then—you touched him.

Your fingers brushed against his wrist, tracing the faint scars that lined his skin.

“Y/N...”

Your fingers paused, but your gaze didn’t waver. “I was just thinking.”

“How long do you plan to stay with me?”

His smirk faltered for a brief second.

Then—he chuckled.

“Forever.”

He expected a laugh. A scoff. A shake of the head at his dramatic words.

But instead— You smiled.

“I like that answer” you murmured. “You’d better keep it.”

Something in your tone sent a shiver down his spine.

I like that.

I like that a lot.

He had reached 100%. And he couldn't wait to see how far you both would go.

[nickeverdeen]

Love in the Air | Ellie Williams x fem!reader

Pairings: Ellie Williams x fem!reader (romantic), Jesse x fem!reader (younger sister), Dina x fem!reader (platonic)

Type of fic: Romance, Fluff, Drunk/Fluff

Warnings: Alcohol, slight alcoholic behaivor

Summary: Ellie navigates her growing feelings for you, Jesse’s younger sister, during a festive night in Jackson. Encouraged by Dina, Ellie gets closer to you, leading to a tender moment between you two.

Tag List: @callsignwidow

————————

Jackson was alive with music and laughter, the night sky dotted with stars above the festive gathering. The community center was packed with people, dancing, drinking, and celebrating, enjoying a rare moment of peace and joy. It was one of those nights where the worries of the world outside seemed to fade away, even if just for a little while.

Ellie stood near the bar, leaning against the wooden counter with a drink in hand, trying to focus on what Dina was saying. But her mind was somewhere else, or rather, on someone else. She found herself glancing across the room every few seconds, her gaze always landing on the same person—Jesse’s younger sister, you.

Dina noticed Ellie’s wandering eyes and let out a sigh, a small smile playing on her lips. “You know, you could just tell her how you feel,” Dina suggested, raising an eyebrow at Ellie. “You’ve been talking about her all night.”

Ellie tore her eyes away from you and looked at Dina, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I know, I know,” she muttered, rubbing the back of her neck awkwardly. “It’s just… she’s Jesse’s sister, you know? I don’t want to mess things up.”

Dina rolled her eyes playfully. “Ellie, trust me, you’re overthinking it. Just go talk to her. She likes you too, you know.”

Ellie’s heart skipped a beat at Dina’s words, but before she could muster up the courage to respond, she felt a hand grab hers. She looked up in surprise to see you standing in front of her, a mischievous grin on your face.

“Ellie!” you said, your voice slightly slurred but full of excitement. “Come dance with me!”

Ellie barely had time to react before you were pulling her toward the dance floor, leaving Dina behind with a knowing smile. As you reached the middle of the room, the music seemed to wrap around you, and you wasted no time in pulling Ellie close.

Ellie was a little stiff at first, her mind racing as she tried to figure out what to do. She could feel your warmth, the smell of your hair, and the way your hands rested comfortably on Ellie’s shoulders. It was almost overwhelming, but in the best way possible.

You were clearly tipsy, your movements a little looser than usual, but there was a certain confidence in the way you guided Ellie through the dance. You swayed together, the music blending with the sound of your soft laughter as you moved in sync.

“You look… really beautiful tonight,” Ellie finally managed to say, her voice quiet as she looked into your eyes.

Your smile widened, and you leaned in a little closer. “You’re not so bad yourself, Williams,” you teased, your voice full of affection.

Ellie’s heart pounded in her chest as the distance between you shrank, and before she knew it, you were leaning in even closer. Time seemed to slow down as your lips brushed against Ellie’s, and then you were kissing—soft, warm, and perfect.

Ellie’s mind went blank as she melted into the kiss, her hands finding their way to your waist, pulling you closer. The rest of the world faded away, leaving just the two of you in that moment, lost in each other.

When you finally pulled away, you looked up at Ellie with a blissful, almost puppy-like expression, your eyes shining with happiness. Ellie couldn’t help but smile back, her heart feeling like it was about to burst.

But before either of you could say anything, Jesse suddenly appeared, gently but firmly pulling you away from Ellie without a word. Ellie stood there, a little dazed, as she watched Jesse lead you away from the dance floor.

Dina quickly joined Ellie, noticing her confused expression. “Don’t worry,” Dina said, placing a hand on Ellie’s shoulder. “Jesse just didn’t like seeing his little sister like that after a few drinks. He’s not mad, just… protective.”

Ellie nodded slowly, trying to process everything that had just happened. “Right… yeah, I get it,” she mumbled, still feeling the lingering warmth of your lips on hers.

The next morning, Ellie was up early, getting ready for patrol. She was still buzzing from the events of the previous night, replaying the kiss over and over in her mind. But her thoughts were interrupted when she heard a knock on her door.

Opening it, she found Jesse standing there, his expression unreadable. Ellie felt a surge of panic, assuming the worst. “Jesse, look, about last night—” she started, but Jesse cut her off with a wave of his hand.

“Relax, man,” Jesse said, his tone surprisingly calm. “I’m not here to give you a hard time. I just came to ask… will you get your girlfriend to the stables, please?”

Ellie blinked in surprise, her heart skipping a beat. “Wait, what?”

Jesse sighed, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Y/N. She’s probably still in bed with a headache from last night. She’ll need some help getting ready for patrol. So go get her.”

Ellie groaned, rubbing her temples. “Oh my god…”

But before she could say anything else, Jesse was already walking away, leaving Ellie standing in the doorway, still trying to wrap her head around what had just happened.

Ellie made her way to your house, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. When she arrived, she found you still in bed, looking a little worse for wear but still as beautiful as ever.

“Morning,” Ellie said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

You groaned, pulling the covers over your head. “Noo…”

Ellie chuckled, gently tugging the blanket down. “Come on, we’ve got patrol. Let’s get you up and ready.”

With Ellie’s help, you managed to get out of bed and start getting dressed, though you moved slowly, clearly feeling the effects of the previous night. Ellie handed you a glass of water and some painkillers, which you took gratefully.

As you fumbled with your clothes, Ellie couldn’t help but notice how endearing you looked, half-asleep and struggling to button up your shirt. Without thinking, Ellie reached out and helped, her fingers brushing against yours as she did.

“Thanks,” you mumbled, your eyes drooping as you leaned into Ellie’s touch.

Ellie smiled, pulling your hoodie over your head, making sure you were warm and comfortable. “There, all set,” Ellie said, but you were already sinking back into bed, your energy clearly depleted.

“Just… five more minutes,” you muttered, curling up under the covers again.

Ellie sighed, but her heart was full as she watched you doze off. Unable to resist, she laid down next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. You instinctively cuddled closer, your fingers playing with the hem of Ellie’s hoodie as you drifted back to sleep.

Ellie felt her own eyelids grow heavy, the warmth and comfort of your presence lulling her into a peaceful state. She closed her eyes, letting herself relax as she held you close.

You were both fast asleep when Jesse came looking for you a little while later. He opened the door, finding you curled up together on the bed, both sound asleep.

Jesse rolled his eyes, a small smile on his lips as he took in the scene. “Figures,” he muttered to himself before closing the door quietly.

He found Dina nearby and quickly filled her in on the situation. The two of them agreed to take over today’s patrol, giving Ellie and you the day off.

Back in the room, Ellie and you slept peacefully, completely unaware of the plans being made around you. For now, all that mattered was the warmth of each other’s presence, and the comfort of knowing you were right where you belonged.

[netflixbingger]

Beneath Rebel Skies - Chapter 4

Characters: Cassian x Reader Summary: You and Cassian Andor were childhood friends on Ferrix—until your parents suddenly tore you away without warning. Years later, you reunite during a mission for the Rebellion. Old memories clash with new tension as you’re forced to work together, navigating the lines between friendship, loyalty, and something more. Word Count: 2,262 words Warnings: Violence, Loss, Mild Language, mentions of sex Masterlist Previous Chapter

“You’re acting weird,” Kiira said, halfway through peeling open a ration bar like it personally offended her. “Like, even weirder than usual”

You groaned from her bed, where you were wrapped in a blanket like it was a shield from her insight. “Weird how?”

She pointed her bar at you. “Weird like, you’re clearly thinking too hard about one specific person and pretending it’s about literally anything else.”

You sighed and stared at her ceiling. “This again.”

“Yes, this again,” Kiira said. “Because I was at the bar the other night. And unless I’m hallucinating, which I’m not, something was going on.”

You sighed, shifting to sit upright. “There wasn’t.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Oh shut it. You literally could cut the tension with a knife. Cade was practically trying to crawl inside your skin and was clearly threatened by Cassian, whom of which looked like he was two seconds away from planting a blaster between Cades ribs.”

“That is dramatic.”

“Is it?” she asked. “Because Cassian was fiercly gripping his drink and refusing to look anyone in the eye. And you were quiet. Like, not your usual contemplative-wounded-heroine quiet, but like you were trying not to say the wrong thing.”

You hesitated. “Cade was just being… weird and I didn't know how to react.”

Kiira nodded, smug. “Exactly. Weird. Touchy. Overcompensating.”

“And Cassian wasn’t jealous,” you added quickly. Too quickly.

Kiira’s head snapped toward you like you’d just said something hilarious. “I didn’t say he was. But wow, thank you for volunteering that information.”

You groaned and shoved your hands into your hair. “Maker.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with Cade, but whatever it is, it’s not that deep. And Cassian—he’s not jealous. He’s just… Cassian. He’s tense about everything.”

Kiira tilted her head. “So you’re saying him stiffening every time Cade touched you was just his general mood?”

“Yes.”

“So when Cade kissed your cheek?”

“He wasn’t mad—”

“Was he happy?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. “He didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly,” Kiira said triumphantly. “That man was screaming on the inside.”

“Oh my gosh”, you dropped your head onto your knees with a groan. “It’s not like that.”

Kiira didn’t say anything right away. Just pulled her braid over her shoulder and started absentmindedly rebraiding it.

“You keep saying that,” she said after a while. “But I think you don’t know what ‘that’ even is.”

You peeked over your knees. “We are barely even friends”

She nodded, surprisingly gentle now. “Okay. So be his “barely” friend. But I’m just letting you, he looks at you like he wants to ruin you..in a good way.”

“Kiira!” “What? Your hot, he's hot, its literally bound to happen. But okay okay, I will zip it... for now”

You didn’t respond right away. Just stared back at the ceiling. The silence in the room went soft, filled with the hum of overhead lights and the sound of Kiira’s braid slipping through her fingers.

“I miss how easy things were when we were back on Ferrix,” you said eventually. “It was so easy then”

Kiira looked at you. “It’s not supposed to be easy anymore. You’re not kids. You’ve both been through hell. You’ve been beating up and stitched loosely back up, but that doesn’t mean it has to be scary- it just means it’s different.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “I think I just… don’t want to mess it up before it even starts.”

She reached over and tapped your boot with hers. “Then don’t try to rush it. Just let it be what it is right now…A weirdly intense, emotionally constipated friendship with a little lingering eye contact.”

You smiled despite yourself. “You’re infuriatingly good at this.”

“I know,” she said. “It’s a burden.”

Then: “Also, if you ever do end up hooking up with him, I better be the first to know.”

“Oh my god.”

“I want details. Full report. Debrief at 0800.”

You threw a pillow at her.

She caught it midair, grinning. “Just saying.”

You laughed into your blanket and let the warmth between you settle into something solid. Something grounding.

Maybe Kiira was right.

Maybe you didn’t have to know what this was yet.

Maybe it was enough to want him in your life—even if you didn’t know in what way.

Not yet.

You didn’t go back to your quarters after leaving Kiira’s.

You couldn’t.

The second you were alone, everything got too loud. Not literally—Yavin was always weirdly quiet at night—but in your head, it was chaos. Thoughts running loops, memories bleeding into moments you hadn’t asked to relive.

You hated the silence sometimes.

You hated what it brought with it.

Because when it was quiet, your mind went back to places you’d already survived once. Streets soaked in smoke. Your mother’s last scream. Wounds that hurt to much. Fear and panic that you once felt.

And now, layered on top of all that, Kiira’s voice echoed too.

"He looks at you like he wants to ruin you—in a good way."

"He was jealous."

"You want it, don't you?"

You didn’t. You couldn't. 

The worst part was even if you had any tiny amount of attraction towards him... Cassian didn’t like you like that. He was too guarded, too distant—too him. If he looked at you sometimes, it didn’t mean anything. Not like that. It was probably in more of a brotherly, protective kind of way… it had to be. 

But you still found yourself replaying the way his voice had softened outside your quarters. The way he’d watched you at the bar, silent, unreadable. The way it felt to sit near him in the cockpit, just existing in the same space, breathing the same air.

You didn’t know what it meant.

You just knew you didn’t want to sit with it alone.

You needed to be around something real. Something quiet but alive. Something that didn’t expect anything from you.

So you walked.

No destination. No reason.

Just one foot in front of the other until you ended up exactly where you always did when you couldn’t sleep.

The hangar. 

Half the overhead lights were off, giving the space a muted glow. You liked it this way. Dim and half-alive. There was always a few night time stragglers coming in from a mission, a few prepping their ship for a morning ride. Or some, just working on mechanics.

Even with a few people, it always held a different vibe at night. It was peaceful, yet active enough to distract. 

And of course, because the universe had a sense of humor, he was there.

Cassian was crouched near a flight panel, sleeves rolled up, grease smeared along the side of one hand. He must have heard your footsteps, because he turned his head slightly for a second before getting back to his work.

You slowed, hovering for half a second before you mentally said “fuck it” and stepped further inside and towards the dark haired man. 

You didn’t say anything at first. Just watched him from a few paces away.

Then, casually: “You know that’s not connected right.”

Cassian glanced over without moving his hands. “Yes it is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“I rewired it myself.”

You raised a brow. “Exactly.”

That earned you a look—half-exasperated, half-amused. “Do you want to do it?”

You smirked and sat on a crate nearby. “No. I want to watch you screw it up first.”

Cassian shook his head and went back to the wiring, muttering something under his breath you didn’t catch.

You leaned back on your hands, watching him work. Sparks flickered briefly as he adjusted something, lighting up his profile in quick flashes. Focused. Determined. Stubborn as hell.

It felt oddly… normal. Like this could’ve been any other night in another life. A softer one. One with less war.

Another beat passed before he spoke again. “You couldn’t sleep either?”

You shook your head. “Didn’t want to be alone.”

He paused at that. Then went back to adjusting the wires. “Yeah. I get that.”

The quiet stretched again, but it didn’t feel heavy. Just… easy. Muted voices drifted from somewhere deeper in the base, barely audible beneath the distant hum of engines.

Cassian glanced over again, expression guarded but softer. “You good after the other night? At the bar.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Are you asking if I was hungover?”

A faint twitch of his mouth. Almost a smile. “I’m asking if you’re good.”

You hesitated a beat, surprised by the genuine note in his voice. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “Just a weird night.”

Cassian didn’t push. Didn’t mention Cade or the awkwardness—just nodded and went back to work.

You watched him for a moment. He wasn’t tense, exactly, just focused. Calm, almost, which was rare enough to be worth noticing.

You watched him for a moment longer. The way his hands moved—precise, steady—like they’d done this a thousand times before. They probably had.

Your gaze drifted.

There was a scar on his forearm, just above the rolled edge of his sleeve. Faint. You hadn’t seen it before—at least, not this close. It looked old. Almost healed flat. The kind of mark that never fully faded.

You stared at it a second too long before speaking.

“That from a mission?” you asked softly, nodding toward his arm.

Cassian glanced down like he’d forgotten it was there. “This one?” He flexed his wrist slightly, turning the scar toward the dim light. “Not exactly.”

You waited, not pushing but not looking away, either.

He exhaled through his nose. “Prison. Narkina 5.”

Your brows lifted slightly. He hadn’t talked about that before. You weren’t even sure anyone had. You’d only ever heard the name in passing, whispered like something no one wanted to remember clearly.

“I don’t… really know what that is,” you admitted quietly.

Cassian gave a dry, hollow laugh - humorless and tired. “Most people don’t. Floating labor camp. Off-grid. No windows, no shoes." he paused, "Floors shocked you if you stepped wrong. Built machine parts, mostly. Shift after shift.”

Your mouth parted slightly, words stuck somewhere behind your throat.

He paused again and glanced at you carefully. “You know Melshi?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah, a little.”

“He was there too.” Cassian turned the scar over again, voice softer now. “We got out together. It was chaos. Had to swim through miles of water—no land in sight. When we finally reached the shore, we spent hours climbing these cliffs. Bare hands, nothing to hold onto.”

He paused, thumb tracing the faded mark absently. “Got this from one of the rocks. Slipped halfway up. Melshi grabbed my arm, pulled me up.”

You didn’t say anything at first. You just watched him. Listened, the weight of the story settling quietly in your chest.

Before you realized it, you reached out, slowly, and brushed your fingers lightly across the edge of the scar. Just once.

Cassian didn’t pull away.

His arm stayed steady beneath your fingers - warm, solid. The scar was raised just enough to feel. A faint ridge beneath your touch.

You should’ve let go.

But you didn’t.

Not right away.

His gaze found yours, and for a second, neither of you moved. The background noise of the hangar faded - the tools clanking in the distance, the low hum of ships idling, even the soft buzz of overhead lights. All of it receded.

He looked at you like he wasn’t sure what you were doing. Like maybe he wasn’t sure what he was doing either.

You dropped your hand, finally, letting it fall back to your lap. “That’s a hell of a story,” you said, trying to sound lighter than you felt. “Swimming for your life, cliff diving, near-death heroics…”

Cassian let out a quiet breath—just this side of a laugh. “Yeah. Wouldn’t recommend it.”

You smiled faintly, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. “Still. You made it out.”

“I got lucky.”

“No,” you said, glancing at him again. “You survived, that wasn't luck, - that was all you”

He didn’t respond. Not with words. But something passed over his face - something quiet and raw that you couldn’t quite name.

You shifted, suddenly self-conscious. “I should probably leave you alone,” you murmured.

Cassian’s voice came soft, low. “You don’t have to.”

You looked up again, surprised.

“You sure?” you asked, unsure if he’d meant to say it or if the words had just slipped.

His eyes lingered on you - careful, steady. “Yeah,” he said. “Stay. If you want.”

And gods, you did.

So you settled back on the crate beside him again, not touching, not speaking. Just letting the quiet stretch out. Letting yourself exist in it - next to him.

You spent the next hour or two there, tucked into that corner of the hangar beside him—correcting him on his wiring, handing him tools when he silently reached for them, making jokes just to hear him huff in quiet amusement.

At some point, you stopped thinking about the silence that had driven you out of your quarters in the first place.

You just talked. Not about anything important - mostly nonsense. Old memories, strange mission stories, a shared complaint about the mess hall coffee.

And somewhere in between, it stopped feeling weird.

It felt like a true friendship. Not the kind you once had on Ferrix. It was different, but it was still good.

By the time you finally stood to leave, your limbs were stiff and your cheeks a little sore from smiling.

Cassian didn’t say goodbye. He just looked up from the panel, eyes meeting yours like he already knew you'd come back.

And you would.

NEXT CHAPTER

Okay, I think that might’ve been my favorite chapter so far—what did you think?? I’d love to hear your thoughts, predictions, or any requests for where you hope this goes!

Posting might slow down a bit now since I’ve officially caught up to what I’ve written, but Chapter 5 should still be up by Friday morning :)

[ddejavvu]

Hi!! So I saw your post for Anakin request and I thought of one. Remember that scene where Anakin and Obi wan go in a club? So I was thinking that scene with Reader and Anakin seeing Reader getting hit on and his being a little jelly. Reader gotta remind him that its him that she wants

Debilitating Desire - Anakin Skywalker x Reader (18+)

Summary: Anakin doesn't handle jealousy well. When a sleazy patron of a bar you're investigating decides he's got the right to touch you, and Anakin can't react because your relationship is a secret, he has to save his outburst for later. Unfortunately, he's only able to make it a few steps down the street before he decides he needs you, right here, right now.

Contents/Warnings: jedi!reader, fem!reader, smut (minors dni), p in v, rough sex, biting, overstimulation, semi-public sex (they're in an alleyway), jealousy, reader gets grabbed by the wrist by a creepy guy </3, lots and lots of messy kisses, anakin's a little possessive but is anyone surprised

WC: 5.2K / navigation / inbox / send me anakin requests!

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

Scouting information from bartenders is next to impossible, but scouting it from their patrons is much easier. Loose-lipped drunks are your targets tonight, and you reconvene with Anakin to corroborate information after gathering intel.

"Okay, I've got a Twi'lek male," You start, and Anakin shakes his head.

"No, no, one of the men I talked to said he was Neimoidian."

"Someone else said Rodian," You groan, "Anakin, maybe we should be asking people who aren't drunk."

"Look around," The man before you scoffs, gesturing to the bar full of nothing but reeling, wobbly drunks, "No one here is sober but him."

"He doesn't have a translator on hand," You drawl, looking at the Ithorian bartender who purposefully 'forgets' his translator whenever someone tries questioning him, "And we don't either."

"We're not getting anywhere," Anakin concludes, a sour scowl on his face as he reaches for your waist to lead you out. "No one's sober, so let's just go, and-"

"I'm sober." A raspy, near-hoarse voice comes from a table nearby, and a hand catches your wrist. Your instinct is to reel back but you don't, even when Anakin's hand tries prying you away with its gloved grip on your waist.

It's a human speaking to you, as far as you can tell, and he's leaning back into the shadowy corner of the bar that he'd been occupying. You're not sure for how long, but if he knows anything about the incident you're trying to gather intel on, you'd like to hear it.

"How long have you been here, sir?" You question, tensing slightly when the man's hand stays firm around your wrist.

"Couple hours," He looks smug, knowing he's holding prized information from two Jedi, "Something you'd like to ask me?"

"You've been here for a couple hours and you're sober?" Anakin questions, pressing you harder into his side in his futile attempt to casually tear you away from the man, "I don't believe that."

"I can hold my liquor," The man boasts, voice far more harsh when addressing Anakin than yourself, "Among other things."

Anakin's had enough. He grabs your hand, stealing it away from the seedy man's grasp and scoffing something unintelligible at him. But you yank him back, a tense smile on your face as you tilt your head towards him urgently.

"I'd like to find out what he knows," You speak forcefully, leaving no room for argument even if Anakin is especially good at creating them.

He scowls at you with an intensity that would normally excite you, though you're not sure you're capable of any feeling other than creeped in the bar you're standing in now.

"You're welcome to go back to the transport if you'd like," You narrow your eyes at Anakin, and the man in the booth leans back smugly at the offer, "But I'm going to do my job."

"Yes, boy," The man disregards Anakin's hands clenching at his sides, "Go back to your ship. You're not needed."

"I'm fine here," Anakin snaps, and the second you sit down across from the man, his hands are on your shoulders as he stands behind you. He grips them tight but the gloved hand clenches just a little more into your skin, and the firm grip grounds you, keeping your voice steady when you speak.

"If you've been here for a couple of hours, you probably witnessed an unfortunate incident a little while ago, didn't you? A fight?"

"There's lots of fights here," The man hums, pretending to think on it, "Can you be more specific?"

"The victim had seven blaster wounds," Anakin seethes, hands only tightening in their grip on your shoulders, "You happen to hear seven blasts?"

"Eight." You mutter, pointing at a singed hole in the wall, "One missed."

"Ah, blaster fight," The man in front of you strokes a hand thoughtfully along his stubbled jaw, "Yeah, 'think I can remember something like that. Some incentive might help jog me a bit, though."

You're not sure whether he means money or sex, but you can't rule either out with the way he's staring. You'd have expected the modest Jedi robes you're wearing to deter any wandering eyes but evidently, some people can't be discouraged.

"We don't have any incentive to offer," You narrow your eyes at him, and Anakin takes over.

"Unless by incentive you mean your life. Tell us what you saw, or you'll envy the target of those blasts."

Your annoyance boils just beneath your skin at Anakin's threats, but you know he won't listen to your urgings to be more careful with his word choice. This man doesn't exactly seem like he'd file a formal complaint with the Jedi Council, but if word ever got around that Anakin was threatening unnecessary violence, you're sure it wouldn't go over well.

Despite Anakin's words having been nothing but a bluff, the man changes his tune when he notices the saber clipped to Anakin's belt, your own hidden beneath the edge of the table. He straightens in his seat, sighing in annoyance, "It was two Neimoidians. Dressed real fancy, stood out like sore thumbs in this place. They cornered some unlucky human over there," He points to the corner of the bar where the singe mark hangs over the cheap decor, "She tried to run, but a Rodian shot her down."

"One Rodian?" You ask, and the man nods.

"Hell of a shot." The man muses with a gnarled grin, and that only makes you more worried. Hell of a shot but he'd fired eight? Clearly they wanted this human - who you have good reason to believe was an undercover informant working against the Separatists - dead.

"The shooter and the Neimoidians were working together?" Anakin confirms, receiving another nod from the man opposite you.

"Thank you," You stand, and to your delight, Anakin's hands snake down your back, the strong, gloved one finding your waist again like a magnet.

"I'm here most nights," The man calls out before you can leave, and you turn to glance at him in disdain as he props his feet up onto the dingy table, "Love to see 'ya off duty, sweetheart."

"Go," Anakin spits against your ear, grip on your waist turning harsh. Your breath hitches and you let Anakin practically push you out of the bar and onto the streets, teeming with civilians until you duck into an alleyway three blocks down from the door.

You're immediately backed up against the wall of the building behind you, but you're too fired up to care as you glare at Anakin, "Don't start with me. Threatening him, Anakin? What if Obi-Wan found out?"

"Obi-Wan is going to be too busy tracking down those Neimoidians to care how we got it out of the guy," Anakin scoffs and the exasperated breath hits your face. His expression only darkens further at the mention of the older man, "That's not the point. Did you see the way he was looking at you?"

"That doesn't matter," You assure Anakin with a soft sigh, but from the distasteful curl of his lips into a hard sneer, it does matter. He's standing tall in front of you with ragged, angry breaths coming from his chest, brows furrowed and jaw clenched as he tries containing his upset. It's not aimed at you, of course, but it's a sight nevertheless. He's all sharp features and tense muscles, rage brewing inside of him that's sure to spill over if you don't turn down the heat in time.

"Men like that are creeps," You dismiss, but Anakin is much less eager to let the situation go, still pressing you against the wall of the dingy alleyway, "Women don't talk to him unless he pays them to, is it any surprise he was forward when I approached him for free?"

"But you gave him no indication-" Anakin gushes, poorly-contained rage grating at his rough voice, "I don't understand. I don't understand how I'm supposed to be yours, how you're supposed to be mine, if people like him think you're theirs for the taking."

"It doesn't matter what he thinks, he can't have me, Anakin." You assure him. You know it's hard for him, being secretive about your relationship. Anakin is highly devoted, to his work, to his training, but most of all to you, and to have to stuff that down whenever you're not alone grates on his nerves.

Your answer doesn't seem to persuade him, so you brace your hand against his rapidly rising and falling chest, "He can't have me because I'm yours, Anakin."

Whatever hateful haze has clouded over his eyes clears like fog as he blinks at your words, probably muscling down hot tears of frustration. He surges forwards to kiss you, and it's hard to be upset that you're pressed against a dirty wall when Anakin's mouth is on your own.

His kisses are fervent and desperate, lips relentlessly catching your own between them. They're sloppy as his hands find your waist like there's magnets in your blood, his palms oppositely charged.

"I want you," He pleads, voice rough and ragged, "I want you all the time. I wanted to take your hand in there. I wanted to take more than your hand," He pants, speaking against your lips that have grown dewy from his saliva. "I wanted to grab your jaw-" He mimics the action, gloved hand clenching at your chin, "And- and kiss you, and bend you right over his table and take you."

"Right in his face," Anakin grunts, and you feel his cock beginning to stiffen through the layers of his robes as he presses himself to you. "Right in his fucking face, angel, I wanted to have you."

"You have me now," You breathe, equally as lustful as you press sticky kiss after sticky kiss to Anakin's tense jawline, "Ani, you have me now, and you have me forever."

"Forever," He groans, and you can see his eyes dilate at the thought. He's perpetually breathless as he chooses to spend his oxygen by kissing you once more. It's all heavy pants and strings of drool, appropriate for the dark, damp alleyway you're hidden in; a dirty fuck for a dirty place.

"Anakin," You moan, your pussy pulsing as his tongue smooths over your top lip, "I need you, here-" Your words muffle as Anakin licks flat over your lips, practically drinking the words out of your mouth, "-here and now. I know it's dirty, but I- I need it. I need you. Please?"

"Say it again," He orders, kissing you so that you can't.

You have to speak while he's still dragging his thick, wet tongue over yours, "I need you."

"More," He presses, his nose now nudging at your cheek as he tilts his head, granting himself only deeper access to your warm mouth.

"I need you," You vow, words garbled as he never backs away from your mouth, "Anakin, I need you."

"You have me," He groans, reveling in the pleasure that your words bring him. His hips roll compulsively against yours, grating through the many layers of robes you're both clad in like he can't stop them if he tries. "And I have you. Angel, I've got you, come here."

He says it like you're trying to leave, like you're not smashed flat between him and a wall. But you try anyways, slinging your hand around his neck to drag him in closer.

Anakin was focused on undoing your belt, but when you pull him close with your arm wrapped behind his neck he pauses, eyes closing as he knocks his forehead against yours.

"Ani-"

"He touched you," Anakin remembers, reaching up to take your wrist in his hand. He holds it delicately, bringing it between your faces to kiss the soft skin against the inside, "He grabbed you. He touched you right here," He peppers more soft kisses against your wrist, "Did he hurt you?"

"No," You hum softly, lips still slick with Anakin's spit, "It was just creepy, that's all. It didn't hurt."

"I'm sorry. I love you," He tells the skin of your wrist, and your hand naturally fits against his cheek, your fingertips ghosting over his ear.

"I love you," You repeat him, and his eyes flit back to your own.

"I love you." He rushes in for another kiss, this one just as desperate as the last. His tongue probes freely through your mouth, he's always been good with it, and your cunt clenches around nothing as Anakin's hands slide back to your waist. This time he lets you sling both of your arms around his neck, shuddering into the kiss when your nails scrape up the baby hairs at the base of his neck.

"Fuck," He groans against your mouth, fingers tugging more desperately now on the belt that he's so accustomed to putting on and taking off. Finally he undoes the buckle, letting it slide down to your ankles. You feel dirty as you hear the clatter of your saber against the ground; you're getting stripped and fucked in a dingy alleyway. But It releases the waistband of your pants, and shame gives way to pleasure as Anakin pries eagerly at the clasp.

"Touch me," You beg, and he's one step ahead of you. His hand presses flat to your belly as he snakes it down your pants, his warm skin pressed flush to your slit as he cups your needy cunt. You feel slick gathered in your pussy, and you're sure if he slips two fingers inside, it'll gush over his digits.

"You're warm," He murmurs, and you're not sure whether he means the spit he's lapping from your mouth, or the way your cunt bleeds heat against his palm. Either way, you know he likes it as his hips buck into your own again, pressing his hand further against your pussy.

"Ani," You feel his bulge through the layers of clothing he's sporting, still dragging him impossibly further with your arms around his neck, practically smashing his face into yours. "Ani, I need you inside, please?"

"I'll take care of you," He promises, kissing sweetly across your jaw, and down to your neck, "Angel, I want you to touch me."

"Hm?" Your brain is dazed, comprehending little as Anakin rolls his palm against your clit.

"Use this hand," He reaches for the one that the man inside had grabbed, "Use this hand, angel, and touch me with it. Get me hard, use the hand he touched."

"Okay," You breathe, scrambling for his belt and letting him help you with the hand that's not down your pants. A part of you is worried someone will see the two of you, but halfway disrobed and shrouded in shadow, you're not recognizable as Jedi, nor are these streets ever free from filth; you blend right in.

When Anakin's belt is undone he lets it fall just like your own had, and you gratefully slip your hands beneath the tunic it had been holding down. You have easy access to his pants now, and slipping your hand inside like he's doing to you means you're met with a half-hard dick.

"You're leaking," You observe, as precum oozes from the head of his cock. You smear it around the tip with your thumb, and his hips jerk into your hand. It's an awkward angle that you're at, stroking his dick while he cups your pussy in the palm of his hand, but it's apparently not uncomfortable to him, because with each pump of your fingers around the length of his cock, it hardens in your grip.

"Oh- fuck, get it- get it messy," He pants, straining as he tries not to cum right then and there at the sight of his pre smeared over your hand.

It's hard not to get it messy. His sticky precum oozes from the head of his dick like a steady stream, beads and beads of the stuff smeared away by your hand to help lubricate the measured strokes you're pumping over his dick.

Your fingers are soon tacky with precum, and his dick makes obscene squelching noises as you run your fist down it. He's panting as his palm grinds hard against your clit, and your hips snap into his hands, moving your entire body forwards. It means your fist slides roughly, sharply straight down to the base of his cock, and he bites back a hiss at the slight pain you've inflicted upon him.

"Now," He breathes rough and ragged, "I need you now. Maker, I'm gonna fucking-" He cuts himself off with a grunt, the hand that's cupping your wet heat flipping and twisting to yank the waistband of your pants down. It catches you by surprise, and the tantalizingly small amount of friction you'd been able to gain while grinding against his palm is gone, leaving the cool air of Coruscant's dingy lower levels to shock you.

"Put it in," He orders, his head downturned, forehead pressed against your own, "Baby, put- get me inside of you, I need-to-be-inside-of-you- there y'go."

You use your fist to line up his cock with your needy entrance, his hips more than willing to close the distance to make it easier for you. You don't get a second to adjust to the heavenly feeling of his tip brushing against your folds before he's jackhammering into you, chest now pressed tightly to your own as he slams you once more against the wall.

You let out a garbled scream as you're instantly full, the pace Anakin sets absolutely merciless on your sloppy cunt. You're well wet enough to provide lubrication for his lengthy cock, but just because you're wet doesn't mean you're ready, and the sensation of him bypassing any cautious thrusts and heading right into jackrabbit territory is one that has you crying out.

"Scream," Anakin hisses, his teeth digging harshly into your plush bottom lip. He licks over the stinging bite mark seconds later, the wet muscle sweeping over your own, "Scream as loud as you can, angel. I want him to hear. Tell him," He pulls away from your mouth only to wrestle your face to the side, his gloved hand gripping tight at your jaw.

"Tell him," Anakin urges, kissing and licking sticky stripes up your neck, "Tell that miserable old creep who makes you scream. Tell him who you love, tell him who fucks you into the wall."

"A- Ani-" You try, but it's not good enough for the man still relentlessly pounding his hips against yours. His free hand is gripping the pliant flesh of your ass with a force that surely means your chub is spilling through his fingers, and he uses the grip to hike your leg up, giving him a better angle to destroy your drooling cunt from.

"Louder. Say it louder." Anakin demands, forcing your jaw open with his hand, "Tell him!"

It's terribly difficult to power through the rather attention-grabbing sensation of Anakin's rock-hard cock bullying your wet cunt. He's rougher than he needs to be, balls slapping hard against the flesh of your ass that he's got in his hold.

But you have to try, and with an embarrassingly loud, desperate pitch to your voice, you scream, "Anakin!"

The second his name comes spilling from your lips in a wanton cry he manhandles your face back towards him, jamming his lips over your own.

"Maker," He growls, "You're so fucking perfect. I tell you to scream my name and you do it," He revels in your obedience, tongue licking a hot, wet stripe over your mouth. He holds it open with his fingers pinched into your cheeks but he doesn't venture inside, merely flattening his tongue over your stinging, swollen lips to leave a drooly residue behind. Only once you've been marked does he delve his tongue between your lips, licking at your own like it's his last meal.

"You're so good for me," His words slur together in their intensity, voice thick and raw with obsession, "Nngh, you're so-" You reach down, barely able to coordinate enough brainpower to take his balls into your hand, massaging them as best you can while his hips piston in and out of you at record pace, "-you're so good to me, Angel. More, give me- more, I want more." He begs, the words spilling over your tongue. He grabs tighter at the flesh of your ass, surely bruising the skin and leaving you sore tomorrow.

"Ah! Anakin," You cry, the feeling of his tongue lapping at your own and swapping spit until there's pools of it around your teeth sending a pulse of electricity straight to your core that makes it throb. Anakin feels your cunt convulse, only pushing his tongue further into your mouth. He's a presence; every part of his body is touching every part of your body. He's all-consuming, he's an enigma, he's yours.

Anakin fucks you harder and faster than ever before. All of his strength training must have done wonders because you can't fathom how he's able to generate that much power this fast, but his hips ram into you while his gloved hand releases your ass to pinch at your clit. He abuses the sensitive bud, pinching and rolling it between his fingers to coax more convulsions out of your sticky cunt.

It works.

The pressure that Anakin presses around your clit lights a live wire of hot, heavy arousal that trails up your spine, heat flowing from where Anakin is still latched onto your shoulder right down to your throbbing core. All of a sudden it's too much, everything is too much, and you feel your orgasm hit you like a speeder, knocking the breath out of your lungs as white hot pleasure burns at your cunt. It's a sensation that splatters firework-worthy bliss from your head to your toes, and your thighs tremble as Anakin fucks you through what might be the most intense, violent orgasm of your life.

"Anakin!" You scream.

Everything he does is rough, from the way his teeth nip at your lips, to the way he's trying to suck your tongue down his throat, to the way his fingers bully your puffy clit, to the way the head of his cock pounds into you with enough force to bruise. It's rough, it's messy, it's aggressive, and it's wonderful. You've never felt such pure jealousy radiating off of Anakin before, and you think it's because you've never been able to indulge him so soon after his jealousy blooms. If he's wary of someone in the temple you have to wait until nightfall to fuck, and if the incident occurs any time before dinner he's more mellow when he finally has you. But now it's fresh, now the brand of raging jealousy is still sizzling against his brain, and he's pumping all of the residual heat straight into you.

"Kriff," He grunts, nearly biting the tip of your tongue as he tries latching onto your lower lip, "Cum. Fuck yeah, angel- angel cum for me, cum- aagh! Cum on my dick," He demands, and you couldn't deny his request if you tried. Your pussy clenches wildly around his cock, convulsing with the force of your orgasm and you claw at his back, regretful that you hadn't stripped off his shirt so that you could scratch up his skin.

All too soon the effects of Anakin's pacing and strength flip a switch, and you're twitching in overstimulation added to your bliss. There's a distinct stinging sensation that's now alongside - and possibly contributing to - your residual ecstasy. The ache is a product of Anakin's sharp thrusts, but his movements are getting sloppy, and all the while he spills obscenities in drool over your tongue.

"You're mine. Gonna fucking cum in you, gonna make you mine, gonna- aah!" He rambles, words and spit alike spilling hastily from his mouth and into your own as he struggles to keep himself steady. He's jackhammering into you so fast that you think he could knock you right through the wall if he tried. You're plastered against it, head thrown back and chest heaving as you try not to collapse under the intense amount of sensation you're receiving.

"Ani," You grip at his biceps, dragging one hand up his left arm and digging your nails into his scalp, "Ani- cum, please cum! Please," You whimper, not sure if you're begging because you need the delicious sensation of his release painting your insides, or because you might pass out if your cunt gets fucked by Anakin's stupidly big cock much more than it has been already, "Please cum!"

"You want me to cum?" He asks, a dreadful rasp to his voice as he ravages your mouth. He bites at your tongue, latches on with his teeth like a wild animal and digs them into the squirming muscle until your saliva runs hot, "You want me to cum in you, angel? You want me to fill you up- stuff you 'til you're leaking?"

"Yes," You moan, one hand still clutching his arm while the other tugs at the base of his curls, "Yes, fuck Anakin, please, I need you to give me your cum! I need your cum, please!"

"You need my cum," He revels, a growl lacing the edge of his voice that sends perpetual shivers down your spine, "You fucking need me. Wish that creep could see you now. Fucked stupid, begging for my cum. Beg for it again, baby. Beg for my cum."

"I need it!" You cry, desperate as you yank tighter at his hair, "Anakin, please, I need it!"

All of a sudden he's no longer invading your mouth, his own latching tightly to your shoulder as he sinks his teeth into you.

"Take it," He grunts gruffly against your skin as he latches onto it, dick finally twitching before spurting hot, thick globs of cum into your spent cunt. Nothing is more gratifying than the feeling of Anakin biting at your shoulder while his hips fuck his cum relentlessly into you, and you're sure you'll be sore all over tomorrow morning. He's letting out the filthiest, most obscene string of grunts against your shoulder as his teeth barely avoid breaking your skin, and though your limbs shake with overstimulation your body doesn't move because it's in his strong grip.

The feeling of him cumming inside of you is like a second orgasm of your own. It's not really a release for you, you haven't cum twice, but Anakin's warm cum flooding your core and squelching as he jerks his hips through his climax feels almost as satisfying as if you were the one cumming. His grunts and growls slowly fade as he comes down from his monumental orgasm, and when he unlocks his jaw from around your shoulder, he leaves behind a ring of teeth marks and a sheen of drool on your skin.

"Kriff," He pants, chest heaving and dick softening as he slumps against you. You're not ready for his added weight, but the little strength he has left is used to hold you upright, so you don't flatten beneath his frame.

"Are you okay?" He hums, lips moving lazily against your neck. They're still wet with spit, and you feel the stuff cooling on your skin.

"I'm okay," You decide, "But- but I don't think I can walk, Ani."

You feel him smile, hear him huff out a laugh even though his eyes are drooping, "I'm sorry. I- It's like I couldn't control myself," He admits, breath fanning warm and wet against your neck, "Not after seeing him grab you."

"I know," You stroke a gentle hand through his sweaty curls, happy to be close to him now that your veins aren't pumping lust through your entire system.

"If Obi-Wan asks," Anakin straightens up, his limbs surprisingly strong for how aggressively he'd fucked you, "You got shoved around by a nasty patron, okay? We'll say they caught you by surprise when you were trying to talk to the bartender."

"Okay." You nod, letting him do all of the work in retrieving your belts from the ground and securing yours around your waist. He hooks his own tightly, his saber thankfully unharmed from being dropped.

"Come here," He holds his arms out, but you barely move to help him scoop you up. He does the lifting on his own, letting you sling your spent arms around his neck and laze your head against his shoulder.

Anakin makes it out of the alleyway, but when he should turn left towards your speeder, he veers right.

"Anakin," You frown, lifting your head wearily to see him approaching the bar again, "Anakin, our speeder's the other way."

"I want you to talk to him," His voice is firm, not much of its honey-sweetness left that had been there after you'd fucked in the dingy alleyway, "I want you to stand there, while I hold you up, and I want you to inform him he'll be questioned by the Jedi Council about what he saw. I want you to lie to him while my cum drips down your legs, angel." He murmurs, his words impossibly filthy even for the setting you're in, "Can you do that?"

"He won't be examined by the Council," Your hazy brain struggles to keep up, "What do you mean?"

"Lie to him." Anakin repeats, eyes slightly darker than they usually are, "Make him afraid while your pussy leaks my cum."

"Okay," You nod willingly, letting Anakin brace your feet on the ground with one of your arms slung over his shoulder to lead you into the bar. Your legs are shaky, you look a mess, but you could be perceived as someone coming away from a nasty fight, so you hold your head high and try to control your thoughts.

"There," Anakin murmurs, spotting the old man where he's already watching you from the corner, "Do it, angel."

Anakin leads you over, stopping short in front of the man's table so that he can't touch you again. He looks pleased at your return, albeit confused as to why you're a mess.

"The Jedi Council wants to speak with you," You recite obediently as the man's eyes widen slightly in apprehension. You can already feel the slow trickle of Anakin's thick cum leaking down your thighs now that you're upright, and it almost distracts you from what you're saying. "They want to know your role in the fight, and what you observed if that's truly all you did. They suspect that you might be working against the Republic, and-"

"I'm not talking to the Jedi Council," The man's face curls into a sneer and his voice is gruff, but not pleasantly so, like Anakin's. He stands from his seat rather uncoordinatedly and bolts for the door, surely expecting you to chase after him. But you don't, you couldn't if you tried, and Anakin gathers you back into his arms.

"Good." He hums, resisting the urge to kiss your forehead for fear of outing your relations, 'You did good, angel. I'm proud of you."

"We'll have to sneak into the temple without interception," You plan as your head rests once more on Anakin's shoulder. He navigates the crowded bar perfectly with you in his arms, and this time he turns towards your speeder like he's supposed to. "Obi-Wan will be waiting for us, but you can tell him to gather the Council, that way we'll have time to clean up."

"Oh, no." Anakin's chuckle is dark as he lowers you into the seat of your speeder. He kisses at your forehead, strokes away a bead of sweat at your hairline, "No, angel. You'll speak to the Council the same way you spoke to that lowlife. With my cum dripping down your thighs."

feedback is greatly appreciated! comment, reblog, talk in the tags, send me a message, tell me what you think!

[shuavez]

litany 𓄧 k.mg

iii. dizzy.

summary 𓄧 every oath has a cost. every touch has a consequence. sent deep undercover into one of the city’s most illicit vampire clubs, two detectives must navigate the delicate balance between duty and desire — and survive the consequences when pretending stops feeling like pretending.

and some hungers, once fed, are impossible to starve.

tags 𓄧 detective!au, vampire!mingyu x human!reader. slow-ish burn. fake dating. friends/coworkers to lovers. various svt members/idols.

warnings 𓄧 mentions of blood, death, threats. wc. 6.7k.

previous chapter ↜ ii. evidence of absence.

The drive to Velvet Eden unfolds in silence, thick and unbroken. It isn’t the tense kind, not quite—it’s something heavier, something weightier. The kind of quiet that feels occupied, like both of you are holding thoughts too dense to speak aloud. The city glides past outside the windows, a blur of sodium lights and neon halos smeared across the glass, refracted and reshaped by the rain still clinging to the windshield in tired streaks.

Beneath your clothes, the wires itch—not from pain, but awareness. Their presence is a phantom touch now, a constant whisper at your ribs, a reminder with every movement that you’re not just dressed for seduction, you’re dressed for surveillance. Tape and plastic, tension and trust. They ground you. They haunt you.

You shift in your seat and catch the flicker of Mingyu’s profile in the dim blue glow of the dash. Steady hands on the wheel. Jaw tight with quiet thought. He hasn’t spoken since you left the precinct, but his presence doesn’t feel distant—it feels intentional. Controlled. You recognize it. It’s the version of him that slips in like water when the stakes rise. Not aloof. Just focused. Measured. Watching everything, including you.

When the car rolls to a stop outside the club, the doorman doesn’t even pause. One glance is enough. No ID check. No questions. Just a nod and a gesture toward the velvet-lined entryway, like the place has already memorized your face. Like it’s decided you belong.

The moment you step through the doors, the world tilts.

The scent hits you first—thick, opulent, and dizzyingly layered. Perfume cloying and sweet, sweat clinging to bare skin, and underneath it all, the metallic tang of blood, subtle but unmistakable. It rides the air like incense, curling into your lungs, settling in your throat. The smell of hunger, ritualized.

The lighting is different tonight. Lower. Dimmed to the edge of decadence, casting every surface in a deeper, richer palette of crimson and gold. Shadows pool in the corners, thick and soft as oil. The music is slower too—less rhythmic, more sinuous. A beat you feel in your chest before you hear it in your ears. The kind of pulse meant to seduce you into forgetting how long you’ve been standing still.

Mingyu stays just behind you, close enough that the heat of him curls at your lower back, even though he doesn’t touch you. It’s not possessive—it’s protective. A presence that says: I’m here. A presence you feel like gravity.

You move as one through the main floor, cutting a path that’s half confidence, half careful choreography. The energy in the room shifts to accommodate you—heads turning, conversations dipping in volume as eyes slide over the two of you with measured curiosity. You don’t react. You let them look. You let them wonder.

At the bar, you rest your hand lightly on the polished surface, the lacquered wood cool beneath your palm. The bartender—a familiar face now—nods once and takes your order without ceremony. You keep it simple: a tall glass of something citrus and sharp, a fizzy bite of lime and tonic that wakes your tongue. It tastes clean in a room that isn’t.

Mingyu orders something red. The kind of drink that sticks to the glass on its way down. You don’t ask what’s in it. He doesn’t offer.

You lean into the counter with practiced ease, legs crossed at the ankles, your posture open but languid—detached just enough to be believable. A woman comfortable in her skin, in her company. You laugh once at something Mingyu says under his breath, your lips curling around the sound like it’s second nature. You’re playing the part. But the part is starting to feel like skin.

Then you see them.

Two men, a handful of stools down—just far enough to be inconspicuous, just close enough to be dangerous. Their suits are too clean, too fitted. Their bodies too still. They don’t lean. They don’t drink. They don’t smile. Their eyes track the room like predators choosing not to chase—yet.

You tilt your chin slightly, angling your body so your left ear picks up their voices more cleanly—just enough for the transmitter nestled beneath your knit to catch the drift of their conversation.

“…next shipment… high-grade stock… auction scheduled…”

Your heart doesn’t stutter, doesn’t race. But it does narrow.

Mingyu’s fingers skim your back, a featherlight brush that looks affectionate to anyone watching, but you know better. It’s a signal. Not yet. Eyes on. Ears open.

You laugh again—something breathy, meaningless—and sip your drink slowly, letting your gaze wander as if you’re simply admiring the crowd. Beside you, Mingyu shifts his weight, one elbow propped on the bar, his body turned slightly toward yours. Casual. Close. Your shield in a silk shirt and subtle cologne.

The men’s voices dip again, obscured by the swell of the bass as the song changes. Whatever they came to say, they’ve said it. One of them downs his drink. The other checks his watch.

The conversation dies on the vine.

Mingyu murmurs something again—something low and deliberately forgettable—and you nod like you’re agreeing to plans for later, slipping off your stool in one smooth motion as he places a hand at the small of your back, leading you away from the bar like he’s ushering you into something far more decadent than surveillance.

You let him guide you deeper into the club’s heart, the sound thickening around you, the air turning heavier with sweat and velvet and light. You can feel the hum of the floor beneath your heels now—something slow and sultry, stitched into the beat of the music like a second pulse.

The dancers are out tonight, and the stage glows like a sin you haven’t confessed to yet.

She moves like molten lava—slow, deliberate, unbothered by gravity. Dark skin lacquered in gold dust and oil, not much else. Her limbs catch the spotlight like polished obsidian, fluid and gleaming, as if she’s been carved from heat itself. She slides around the pole with the kind of control that makes your breath catch, like the air around her bends in deference.

At the apex of a spin, she fixes you with a gaze that lands like a brand. It drags over you first, then Mingyu behind you—pauses there. Her lips quirk, barely, in something like approval. Or recognition.

You don’t blink. Neither does he.

The crowd swells around you, soft fabrics brushing against bare arms, conversations murmured into collarbones, the thrum of bodies orbiting each other with lazy hunger. You let it swallow you whole, this curated decadence, and for a moment, you forget the wires. The lies. The job.

Just enough.

His chest is a solid wall of heat against your back, his breath a soft whisper at your hairline. You feel the reassuring weight of him everywhere—around you, over you, in the way his fingers toy idly with the hem of your sweater, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

You sway together slowly, drinking in the atmosphere with half-lidded eyes, letting yourselves blend into the velvet haze. There’s something perversely sensual about the way you’re both watching her—entranced, complicit.

You know what’s buried beneath all this polish and perfume. You know what she’s dancing over.

And still—you look.

For a moment—just a moment—you forget why you’re here.

You forget everything but the soft pressure of his arms, the pressure of his chest steady against your back, the kind of weight that keeps you tethered.

The moment ends quickly.

You and Mingyu have only just slipped from the weight of those whispered conversations at the bar, the nerves still cooling beneath your skin, when a voice lifts above the music—smooth, polished, with the lilt of genuine amusement threading through it.

“I was beginning to think she wasn’t real.”

You turn, startled at first, until Mingyu’s posture shifts beside you—uncoiling just slightly, like a tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying has just ebbed away. He steps forward half a pace, his hand brushing the small of your back as he turns to face the man now approaching.

The man is tall—not quite Mingyu’s height, but cut from the same clean lines. He wears his blazer undone, shirt collar open at the throat, no tie. Casual elegance. His dark hair is swept back in a way that suggests artful disarray, but you know it takes precision to look that effortless. There’s a glass in his hand—something pale and gold, swirling lazily—and his smile is warm in a way that doesn’t feel sharpened for show.

Mingyu exhales softly, his voice dipping into something easy. Familiar. “You’re late.”

“I’m deliberate,” The man corrects, one brow lifting. His eyes turn to you then, and unlike so many others in this place, they don’t linger on your throat. They don’t scan you like you’re meat walking on two legs. Instead, they rest at your face, observant but not dissecting. “You must be the infamous girlfriend.”

You blink. “Infamous?”

“Oh, he’s been muttering about you for weeks,” The man says with a wave of his glass, like that explains everything. “Wouldn’t shut up about how smart you are. How you don’t scare easy. I thought maybe you were a metaphor.”

You glance sideways at Mingyu, surprised. He only smiles faintly, the corners of his mouth tugging up. “I don’t do metaphors,” he murmurs.

He chuckles. “No. You do pining. Badly.”

The jab is gentle. Old-friend ribbing. You feel it in the way Mingyu doesn’t bristle, doesn’t deflect. Just breathes through it and lets you step forward on your own terms.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” He says, extending a hand. “Han Sanghoon. I throw the Saturday salons upstairs. Art, music, vintage cinema. The only part of this place with halfway decent conversation.”

You take his hand, surprised by the cool smoothness of it. He doesn’t grip too tightly. Doesn’t leer. Just meets your gaze squarely and nods once, as if to say: You’ve been seen, and not like prey.

Mingyu offers up the story you rehearsed with a smoothness that almost fools you too. “She’s a writer. We met through work. I didn’t think she’d take to a place like this but… she’s handling herself.”

Sanghoon hums, studying you again—but not rudely. Not like a threat. More like someone taking in a detail-rich painting and trying to decide what the artist meant. “Well. You’ve got more poise than most of the mortals here. That’s saying something.”

You let yourself smile, small and measured. “I was told Eden wasn’t for the faint of heart.”

“It isn’t,” he replies. Then, more quietly, “But the faint of heart rarely make it past the front door.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just… full. The music throbs faintly underfoot, heavy and slow. All around you, the room continues its hungry waltz—eyes and mouths and flickering glances—but here, within this small pocket of space carved out by Sanghoon’s presence, you feel oddly untargeted. Like being watched, but not hunted.

Sanghoon drains the rest of his drink and sets the glass on the lip of a passing server’s tray without looking. “They’ll be watching you now,” he says, almost to himself. “Word spreads quickly. Mingyu never brings anyone.”

Your brow furrows slightly, almost amused. “Should I be worried?”

“Not yet,” he says lightly. “But maybe wear flats next time. Just in case.”

Mingyu chuckles under his breath, the sound low and rare. You feel it at your back more than you hear it.

Sanghoon flashes you one last glance, something knowing in it now. Not lewd. Not possessive. Just… knowing. “Good luck, darling. And if you get bored of the wolves, come upstairs. I’ve got Criterion films and real whiskey.”

He nods once more, turns, and vanishes into the crowd as seamlessly as he’d arrived.

You watch him go, strangely affected. You hadn’t realized how much weight you were carrying in your posture until it eases now—shoulders uncoiling, lungs drawing a full breath again.

Mingyu’s hand finds yours in the low light, curling loosely around your fingers. “You okay?”

You nod once, eyes still on the crowd. “That was… not what I expected.”

“Sanghoon is a rare breed,” he says softly. “He’s old as shit. He doesn’t feed here. Doesn’t need to. He’s got his own world upstairs. He comes down when he’s curious. That’s all.”

You nod again, quieter this time. You can feel it now, the shift in the room’s energy. People saw you. Saw him with you. And maybe more importantly—someone like Sanghoon had acknowledged you.

You’re no longer just another human on a leash.

You’re someone worth noticing.

And that, in this place, is power.

You murmur something about needing the bathroom—code to disengage—and Mingyu presses a fleeting kiss to your temple. It lingers there longer than it should, warm and grounding, like he knows exactly how much you don’t want to be apart. “I’ll wait by the bar,” he says, voice pitched low enough to brush only your skin.

It’s almost too easy, slipping away from him like that. But harder still is the distance—the way his presence seems to recede with every step you take, like warmth retreating from your bones.

The corridor is narrow, walled with floor-to-ceiling mirrors that catch your reflection at every angle. The lights are dim, tinted gold, casting everything in a soft, surreal haze. Each step sinks into the plush carpet beneath your boots, the velvet hush of it swallowing your footfalls whole. You pass doors with silver handles and no names, each one humming with a low, electric tension. The scent here is different from the club floor—less sweat, more cologne, a dry hint of cedar, and the underlying trace of blood that never quite fades.

You round the final bend of the hallway, one hand gliding idly along the brass-lined wall, your other brushing your hip—checking, without thinking, for the reassuring press of your transmitter beneath your sweater. You’re already anticipating the comfort of returning to Mingyu’s side, to the sanctuary of his presence, his voice in your ear, the unspoken tension between you both that somehow makes you feel steadier in your skin.

But something shifts.

Subtle, like the temperature dropping just a fraction. The air stills. Thickens. You feel it before you see it—a presence waiting in the shadows, just out of reach of the last warm bulb overhead.

He leans there, half-swathed in low amber light, one shoulder resting lazily against the mirrored wall. The same vampire from earlier. The one with the sharp suit and eyes that didn’t track movement so much as assess value.

You take a measured breath, slowing your pace just slightly. Not too much. Not enough to signal alarm.

He steps forward. Not quickly. Not aggressively. But there’s purpose in the way his leather shoes whisper over the carpet, in the way the shadows seem to follow him like they know he belongs to them.

“Alone,” he says, his voice warm and smooth like a fine cognac. “I wondered if you’d stray far from your handler.”

You blink, keeping your expression open and curious, schooling your features into the soft mask of someone too new to know better. “Just needed the bathroom,” you murmur, letting a small, slightly sheepish smile tug at your lips. “Didn’t know there’d be a welcome committee.”

He chuckles, a dry, knowing sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry. I just happen to enjoy making introductions.”

Another step forward. He smells like smoked wood and something sharp underneath—expensive cologne layered over something darker, something instinctual. There’s no immediate danger in his posture, no overt threat. But the tension humming beneath your skin tells a different story.

He circles slowly, not quite closing the space, but carving around you in a way that feels strategic. Curious.

Predatory.

“You’re rare,” he says, eyes flicking down your frame, pausing—not on your body, but something deeper. “It’s in your scent. Richer than most. Clean.” He breathes in, like he’s savoring it. “Fresh.”

Your stomach knots, but your smile doesn’t falter. “I showered.”

That earns a slow grin. Not amused—appreciative. “Clever,” he says. “But don’t play coy. You know what I mean.”

You angle your chin, still feigning curiosity, a tilt of your head that could read as flirtation or confusion. “I’m not sure I do.”

He leans in slightly, voice dipping into something quieter, more intimate. “There are vampires in this building who’ve lived a century and never tasted anything close to you. Never even smelled it. You walk in, and they smell it before they see your face. You don’t belong here—but not for the reasons you think.”

Your pulse kicks behind your ribs. You work to keep your expression neutral, even a little disoriented, like a human too green to read the subtext.

But then he steps closer.

The space narrows, walls inching in around you like they’ve always intended to trap you here. His eyes flash—not with hunger, but with something colder. Cunning.

“They’ll dress you up in silk and pour champagne down your throat,” he murmurs. “They’ll call you a guest. Pretend you’re special. But when the time comes?” His gaze drops, sharp and gleaming. “They’ll bleed you out like an animal and call it ceremony.”

The silence that follows is thick. Not dramatic—just final.

The words settle in your chest like lead. You don’t recoil. You don’t flinch. But your mouth tightens at the corners, your spine straightens half an inch, and your fingers curl faintly at your sides. There’s something hollow curling in your gut, but it isn’t fear. Not entirely. It’s a different kind of knowledge. A terrible, clinical understanding of exactly what you’ve walked into.

Of what you’ve agreed to become.

He steps back half a pace, as if admiring the effect of his words. As if amused by your quiet composure. Like he thought you’d cry, or run, or beg—but all you give him is silence. A polite blink. The slightest tilt of your head.

And then—you feel it.

Before you see him. Before he speaks.

The hallway bends around a presence that wasn’t there a second ago. Soundless, seamless, so familiar you don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. The way the space behind you fills out. He doesn’t move fast. Doesn’t speak immediately. But the sense of him curls around your back like a shield, and your whole body exhales at once, tension unspooling from your shoulders in a way that feels both involuntary and inevitable.

His hand starts between your shoulders, sliding up to squeeze gently at the base of your neck, like anchoring you to the spot. It’s not a possessive touch. It’s strategic. Quietly commanding. The kind of physical reassurance that says a lot, without needing to be spoken aloud. The kind that centers you in a moment that’s trying very hard to spin off its axis.

“You wandered off,” he says, smooth and level, like he’s stepping into a dinner party and not a low-simmering threat. His tone is polite, maybe even casual to the untrained ear—but you hear the weight behind it. The warning stitched into silk.

Across from you, the vampire doesn’t flinch. If anything, his smile grows. But there’s a flicker behind his eyes—calculation. Recalibration. Mingyu is taller, broader, colder in the way that matters. The kind of cold that doesn’t need to raise its voice to chill the blood in your throat.

“We were chatting,” the vampire says, with that same smirk, like it’s all a game. “She’s… unique.”

“Mm.” Mingyu’s hum is noncommittal, almost amused. But you feel the flex of muscle beneath his shirt, the subtle tension threading up his arm into the hand at your nape. “It didn’t sound like small talk.”

“She’s fascinating,” the man continues, undeterred. “I can see why you’re so protective. Blood like hers? You should be.”

That gets him a flicker of reaction—not from Mingyu’s face, which remains unreadable, but in the slow way his thumb brushes once along your skin. Anchoring. It’s for you. A signal. I’ve got you.

Mingyu angles his head slightly, just enough to shift the balance of the moment. “If there’s something you want to say,” he says, quieter now, colder, “say it.”

The vampire holds his gaze. There’s a tension in the air now, fine and crackling, like the seconds before lightning splits a summer sky.

But then—he smiles again, wider this time. And steps back.

It’s not a submission. It's a smug retreat. He knows he’s been pushed, but he leaves like he’s already gotten what he came for. He slides past you with a predator’s grace, and the air trails after him like silk slipping through fingers.

But you don’t move.

Not right away.

Because you know what he expects: a flinch, a recoil, the hurried retreat of a frightened little thing who’s gotten too close to a sharper set of teeth.

So you stay.

Still. Upright. Calm.

Mingyu doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t urge you forward, doesn’t press you to go. He stands behind you like a monument, all quiet strength and steady heat, his hand still a quiet pressure at your side.

“You didn’t use the word.”

His voice is low, quiet enough that it slips in under the club’s bass-thrum and clings to the space between you like smoke. It isn’t an accusation. Just an observation.

You shake your head slowly, smoothing your palms down the front of your skirt more out of instinct than necessity. The fabric is already flawless, but your hands need something to do. “Didn’t need to.”

But then, after a beat, the question slips out—softer, smaller than you mean it to be.

“How did you know? You were still at the bar.”

Mingyu doesn’t answer right away, and you don’t press. He walks beside you, a quiet shadow of control, his movements fluid but purposeful, like he’s still shedding the tension from before. His hand twitches once at his side, as if his body hasn’t quite caught up with the fact that the moment has passed.

Finally, he speaks—measured, matter-of-fact, but not without care.

“Your heartbeat changed.”

You blink, eyes tracking across the dim hallway ahead of you, suddenly more aware of the blood drumming steady in your ears. It’s a strange thing—to be known that intimately. To have the secrets of your body translated so effortlessly by someone else. He hadn’t needed a code word. Hadn’t needed you to falter or call for help. He’d just known.

“Right,” you murmur, not really as a reply, more to fill the space that’s opened up between the revelation and the quiet hush that follows it.

When you reach the threshold where the hallway bleeds back into the main floor, you pause, your heel catching slightly on the plush carpet as your eyes scan the club again. The lights seem harsher now, more performative, casting everything in theatrical shades of crimson and gold. The dancers are still moving, slow and serpentine, the music thick with lust and intention. Everything is exactly the same—but you aren’t.

You feel the weight of the encounter still clinging to you like second skin. Not panic—no, that’s not it—but a shift. A click in your bones that hasn’t settled back into place.

Beside you, Mingyu doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. His eyes are already moving, cataloging every exit, every line of sight, every vampire whose gaze lingers too long. His body hums with restraint, with readiness, like he hasn’t quite stopped moving even though his feet are still.

You draw a breath—slow, deep, as much to steel yourself as to taste the air again—and then shake your head once, decisively. “I don’t even know how long we’ve been here, but that’s enough for one night.”

Mingyu’s gaze flicks down to you, then out toward the floor again, assessing, weighing, confirming. He nods once. Sharp. Agreement without protest.

“I’ll call it in.”

There’s no announcement as you turn and make your way back toward the front of the club, no grand performance of departure. You walk like you belong there, like you’re ending the night on your own terms—which, in a way, you are. You’ve been seen. Felt. Assessed. And if nothing else, that was the mission.

The doorman offers a nod as you pass through the threshold into the night, the heavy door hissing shut behind you and sealing off the velvet-dark decadence of Eden like a dream you’re only half-awake from.

Outside, the air is crisp. Not quite cold, but clear enough to cut through the fog that had gathered in your lungs. The city lights blur through the mist that clings to the pavement, neon bouncing off puddles like oil slicks. It’s quieter out here. Realer. The thrum of the club still vibrates faintly behind you, but it already feels distant. Like something that happened hours ago.

You don’t speak as you cross the sidewalk toward the car. You don’t have to. The silence between you isn’t heavy. It isn’t awkward. It just is. Present. Shared.

When Mingyu opens the passenger door for you, you hesitate for just a second before slipping inside, the warmth of the vehicle seeping slowly into your limbs. He rounds the hood without a word, slipping into the driver’s seat and pulling the door shut behind him. The engine starts with a low purr, headlights cutting clean lines through the fog ahead.

They’re barely a block away when Mingyu finally speaks, his voice low but solid, carving through the quiet like something warm and certain.

“You good?”

You glance at him, eyes catching the blur of passing streetlights across the clean lines of his profile. He’s watching the road, hands steady on the wheel, but there’s something behind the question—more than protocol, more than concern. Something a little quieter. A little closer.

“I’m alright,” you answer, and it’s mostly true. “Just… piecing things together.”

He hums once under his breath, a sound of acknowledgment, then taps the steering wheel lightly with his thumb. The radio crackles softly to life—secure line—and with a practiced flick of his fingers, he thumbs the switch and leans toward it just enough.

“Agent Kim. We’re clear. Exiting Eden now. En route back to base. ETA fifteen.”

Jeonghan’s voice cuts through a moment later, tinny with static but unmistakably him: “Copy that. Don’t speed, bloodsucker. And bring me a warm drink next time, you selfish bastards.”

Soojin’s voice trails in behind his, much closer to the mic and full of sleep-deprived sarcasm. “Tell your girlfriend her wire held up beautifully. Crystal clear. Not even a squeal.”

You raise your brows slightly, mouthing girlfriend? toward Mingyu with a wry little tilt of your head. He doesn’t look at you, but you catch the subtle tug at the corner of his mouth—almost a smile.

“We’ll debrief when we’re in,” he says into the mic, flicking it off without another word.

The car lapses into silence again, but not the same kind as before. It’s looser now, filled with something lighter. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand anything but offers room, if you want to fill it.

You lean back into the seat, letting your eyes flutter shut for a second, just long enough to feel the gentle hum of the road beneath the tires, the residual adrenaline melting slowly out of your limbs. Your mind is still ticking, of course—turning over the words from the vampire in the hallway, the look in his eyes, the prose they’ll bleed you out like an animal and call it ceremony. You can still hear the way he said it. How amused he’d been. Detached. Like he was talking about livestock.

You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to unclench your jaw.

Mingyu’s hands stay steady on the wheel, knuckles loose against the leather, eyes fixed on the wet ribbon of road ahead. But you can feel him watching you in the quiet—more of a pulse than a glance. That subtle kind of awareness only he seems to have. A radar tuned specifically to you.

“You okay?” he asks eventually, voice soft. Careful.

You already asked me that. You nod, then hesitate.

He waits, like he always does.

“I’m fine,” you say. “Just… coming down.”

A pause.

Then, “You sure? You looked ready to shank him with your heels back there.”

You let out a breath—half a laugh, half a sigh. “I considered it.”

“Good instincts,” he says, nodding sagely. “But for the record, I had it handled. I’ve been rehearsing my Big Scary Vampire Boyfriend lines.”

You glance at him, surprised. “Have you.”

“Oh yeah.” His voice drops into an absurdly gravelly register, one hand gesturing broadly. “‘Step away from my girl, bloodsucker.’ That one’s a classic. Or—‘Touch her again and I’ll rip your fangs out and use them as cufflinks.’”

You burst out laughing—actual, full-body laughter, the kind that pulls loose from your chest before you even try to stop it. You press a hand to your mouth but it doesn’t help. He glances over, clearly proud of himself.

“Oh my god,” you wheeze. “Please tell me you didn’t say that last one out loud.”

“No, but I was close,” he says, grinning now. “It was locked and loaded. You should’ve seen my face—I looked terrifying.”

You shake your head, still laughing, the tension bleeding out of your spine with every breath.

There’s a beat where neither of you says anything. He lets you sit in it, that little pocket of safety he’s carved just for you. No pressure. No questions.

Then you speak, quieter this time.

“Thanks, Mingyu.”

He looks over. Just once. But it’s soft.

“For what?”

You glance out the windshield, watching headlights flicker across the windshield like fireflies. “For having my back. Always.”

And just like that, he’s smiling again—not the cocky grin, not the performance. Just something warm and real and a little bit shy.

Without a word, he lifts his right hand from the gearshift and offers it toward you, pinky extended.

You stare at it for a second, then loop yours through it without hesitation.

He gives it the smallest squeeze.

“Always,” he says.

And you believe him. Down to the bone.

When you and Mingyu step back into the precinct, the shift in atmosphere is immediate.

Gone is the heat of velvet and blood, the haze of perfume and red light. In its place: the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, the stale tang of burnt coffee drifting from a pot that’s been sitting too long, and the soft clatter of keys and chairs and rustling paper—home, in its most bureaucratic form.

Soojin spots you first.

She’s sitting cross-legged in a chair just off to the left of the bullpen, headphones pushed half-off her ears, posture loose but alert. Her eyes catch yours instantly. She takes one look at your face—at the faint smear of tension behind your eyes, the new lines creasing the corners of your mouth—and quietly tugs her headphones down.

“No wires blown. Good audio. And you’re in one piece,” she murmurs, like it’s a checklist she didn’t want to have to use.

You give her a small nod. “More or less.”

Mingyu doesn’t say anything, just drops into a nearby chair with a sigh that rolls slow and heavy from his chest. His fingers run briefly through his hair, pushing it back, and you notice the way his shoulders fall when they’re finally out of sight—when he doesn’t have to pretend to be anything but tired.

Jeonghan appears a second later, still in his button-down from earlier, sleeves shoved past his elbows and tie pulled loose. “Nice of you to drop in,” he says, not quite sarcastic, but not gentle either. “Thought we were gonna have to fish you out of some private VIP altar room.”

You flash him a tired look, but it’s Soojin who cuts in, eyeing you with narrowed concern. “You look like you haven’t blinked since you left. Go home. Sleep.”

“I’m fine,” you say automatically.

“You’re not,” she says, just as quick. “Don’t make me get Seungcheol.”

You almost smile. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

Jeonghan comes up behind the desk, fingers drumming idly on the surface near the monitor. “Come on. No one’s questioning your stamina, ace. But we’ve got hours before TARU finishes the second pass on tonight’s data dump. You won’t miss anything.”

He means well. You know he does. But the tension in your limbs hasn’t uncoiled yet, and the thought of going home—to the silence of your apartment, to the echo of Mingyu’s voice still somewhere near your collarbone—feels more daunting than any overtime.

“I just want to skim the logs,” you murmur. “Flag some timestamps.”

Mingyu looks at you then. Not hard. Not persuasive. Just steady. There’s no challenge in his eyes, just quiet understanding, the kind that makes your chest ache a little more than you’re ready to admit.

The others don’t push it.

Soojin mutters something about ordering dinner for the rest of them, and Jeonghan claps Mingyu once on the shoulder before heading off toward the conference room. The bullpen slowly clears, the noise softening into background hum.

You stay behind.

You settle into your desk chair, the leather worn and familiar beneath you, and start pulling up logs on your screen. Your reflection catches in the monitor’s black edge for a moment—eyes darker than usual, shadows like bruises under your lashes. You don’t look away.

The first time you met Mingyu was four years ago.

It was a precinct mixer—one of those awkward, semi-obligatory networking things with bad catering and even worse turnout. You’d arrived late, half-drenched from the rain, makeup smudged at the corners of your eyes and patience already worn thin. Mingyu had been the only person you didn’t recognize in the room, tall and quiet in the corner, nursing a beer he looked like he didn’t even want.

You made a joke about his tie—it was too perfect, too crisp, clearly a man trying to dress down without knowing how. He’d looked up, startled, then smiled. Wide, sheepish. The kind of smile that cracked something warm open in your ribs even then.

That was the first time.

The second was a shared case file. A suspect you’d both flagged on separate assignments. He emailed you first. Polite. Curious. Efficient. But it was the PS at the end—“Nice tie, right?”—that made you laugh aloud in the middle of evidence review.

After that, you kept finding each other.

Crossover court dates. Shared witness lists. Nights where your cases would intersect just long enough for you to pull him aside and compare timelines. You’d run into him near the vending machines, both of you reaching for the same terrible room temperature soda, and end up standing there for ten minutes longer than you meant to—talking about nothing important, just catching your breath between the harder parts of the day.

You started to look forward to the overlaps. You’d note his name on internal memos and feel something settle, something a little lighter. Like, okay. Mingyu’s on this one. It won’t be so bad.

When you got promoted to Detective Lieutenant, the crossovers became more frequent. You found yourself in meetings with him, passing case files back and forth, sitting beside him in briefings just because it felt natural. He was easy in a way most people weren’t. He listened more than he talked. And when he did speak, it was careful. Considered. Rarely about himself, but always with a kind of grounded clarity that steadied you too.

He became someone you texted when you needed a second pair of eyes on a lead. When you wanted to scream at a wall but weren’t ready to talk to Jeonghan about it. When you just wanted someone who would get it.

Outside of your unit, outside of TARU, he was the one constant.

Not loud. Not clingy. Just… present.

Once, after a particularly frustrating week, you’d called him from your car after midnight. You didn’t mean to vent—you didn’t mean to call at all, really—but you were too tired to talk to anyone who didn’t already understand. He’d answered on the second ring, voice low and rough with sleep, and hadn’t complained once. Just listened. Asked the right questions. Said exactly one thing that made you laugh.

You didn’t talk about it after that. But you’d both remembered it.

That’s the thing about Mingyu—he never demanded your trust. He just made space for it, until you realized you’d already given it to him.

You press the tip of your pen to the corner of a case file without writing anything, just letting the weight of it sit beneath your fingers as the soft hum of the precinct carries on around you. A distant door clicks shut. The heater groans low behind you. The tea in your cup has gone tepid, long forgotten, but you don’t reach for it again.

Your eyes are on the words in front of you—names, timestamps, gaps in data that beg to be closed—but none of it is sinking in. None of it matters right now, not with the way your mind keeps returning to the heat of a mouth at your throat. His mouth.

You hadn’t been prepared for the way it felt. You’d told yourself you were—it was part of the job, it was the plan—but nothing in your training accounted for the way your breath had hitched, your pulse had quickened, the way his hand had braced your thigh with instinct more than intention. It had been careful, yes. Controlled. But not clinical. Never clinical. Not with him.

You remember the press of his body—solid, unyielding, all taut muscle honed from years in the gym and something older, something inhuman resting just beneath the surface of it. A kind of power that didn’t need to speak itself aloud. You felt it through your skin like pressure, like gravity. The feeling of him had soaked through your clothes and into your bones, and somehow, you hadn’t wanted to pull away.

And now—now he’s everywhere.

In your space. In your thoughts. In your periphery.

He sits across from you at your shared desk, sifting through member logs and surveillance files like he belongs there. He lingers at your side during briefings, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed, like there’s nothing strange about this new orbit you’re both slowly falling into. He’s in your routines now—coffee breaks, late nights, the hum of his laughter low in his throat when Jeonghan makes a particularly stupid joke. He’s in the silence too, and somehow that’s worse. Or better. You’re not sure anymore.

Because something is shifting.

Not loudly, not sharply. But undeniably. Quiet as breath and steady as blood.

You feel it when he stands a little too close. When your knees brush under the desk and neither of you moves away. When he looks at you—not just sees you, but looks at you—and there’s something unreadable in his eyes. Something that didn’t used to be there.

You used to know exactly who he was to you.

Friend. Colleague. Ally.

Now, the lines are blurred by proximity and blood and the memory of how his voice had curled around the word baby like it wasn’t just a performance. Like it meant something. Like it already belonged to you.

You shift in your chair, suddenly aware of how long you’ve been sitting in this fugue. The room feels heavier than it should, thick with something you can’t quite name. You draw a slow breath and release it just as quietly, steadying yourself. There’s still work to be done. Still answers to be found.

But the facts on the page feel flat now, distant—stripped of urgency by the fact that something else has taken root under your skin. Something that hums low in your chest whenever he’s near, something that unfurls behind your ribs when you think about the way he looked at you tonight—like he would’ve torn the world apart to get to you.

This operation is changing both of you. Not just in how you work, or how you move through the club. But in who you are to each other.

You’re not sure what it is yet.

But you’re starting to want to find out.

next chapter ↝ iv. parlay.

click here for tag list submission / removal.

tag list!

@bangtanbolo @ateez-atiny380 @hipsdofangirl @rem-mp3 @minghaofied @gyu-woo @dreamingofpcy @jonginjinyoungjaehyun @gabbwaa @wonu13 @tokitosun @lalataitai @callmehoweveruwatblog

thank you for all your kind words, reblog and likes so far!! 🥰

[lxkeee]

IT'S BEEN SO LONG

-PART TWO

pairing: Lucifer Morningstar x Adopted! Fem angel! Reader [platonic!]

fandom: Hazbin Hotel

genre: fluff and cute

notes: will be making a male version of this. Someone please remind me.

PART ONE | PART THREE | NAVIGATION

THIS TAKES PLACE TWO WEEKS BEFORE THE PART ONE TIMELINE

Lucifer smiles as he watches his daughter interact with the new guests of the hotel, after the recent extermination, sinners began to slowly get interested with the hotel and wanted to give redemption a shot. Though, he can't exactly say that business is booming as the hotel only gained three new guests—a sibling of three, an older sister, a middle child brother, and their little sister.

They thought the hotel could help them and decided to join, in which Charlie, his daughter welcomed them with open arms.

Currently, he's sitting by the bar while Husk prepares his drink. Lucifer watches the interaction between the youngest new guest and his daughter. Charlie holding the small girl in her arms as she raised her up in the air, the small child giggling in glee. The scene evoking an almost forgotten memory of Lucifer.

“Charlie, Charlie! Uppies again! Please!” the girl giggles and Charlie nodded and raised the smaller girl up, making the child laugh.

The scene almost made Lucifer cry, as a memory flashed in his mind—a certain angel that he sees as a daughter despite not being related to him. [Y/n], his adopted daughter. The first girl he raised, he remembers an almost exact scene as this—the memory where he was still in heaven with her, gently throwing her up in the air and her little angel wings fluttering behind her as she falls back into his arms. Heck, he even remembers that the girl accidentally hit his face with a blast of snow.

Husk raises an eyebrow as he notices the king of hell had such a somber expression on his face, Lucifer didn't even react when he placed down the drink he made for him and just opted to play with glass as he was in deep thought.

The feline raises an eyebrow, turning around to continue wiping a freshly cleaned glass, “Penny for your thoughts?” he grumbles, breaking Lucifer's trail of thoughts.

“Just thinking about something. No need to worry.” Lucifer says softly and Husk huffs but decided not to press any further.

Lucifer went back to thinking again, wondering how his daughter is. After he got cast out of heaven, he never saw her again. He never prayed for the sake of himself nor his family as dare he says it would be offensive as his wife and daughter are demons but he prays that his angelic daughter is taken care of.

Even though kneeling down and praying to his father shatters his pride a little bit but he begs, he begs that [y/n] is well taken care of.

He missed her so much. He's guilty for not being there for her, for not being able to see her grow. How is she? Did she grow up to be a fine young woman? Did she become powerful? Does she remember him? Does she miss him like he misses her? He'll never know.

His memory of her getting worse and worse each day, bit by bit her features become blurry in his mind. He tried painting her once but dear God, he's not a painter. He's more of a singer and musician. He threw away the painting, his skills can't do his daughter justice. A shame he doesn't have any pictures of her.

A somber expression returns to his face, Charlie turns to look at her father who had such a sullen expression on his face. The girl gently let's down the child she was holding, ushering them to go play with Vaggie as she was worried about what had gotten her father down in the dumps.

She then walks towards the bar, takes a seat next to her dad. Husk immediately prepares her usual drink—a glass of wine.

“Is there something wrong, dad?” she asked softly and Lucifer chuckles, taking a sip of his drink—a white Russian cocktail.

“Did I ever tell you that you have an older sister?” He began and Charlie's jaw dropped, Husk stopped midway in making Charlie's drink.

Lucifer chuckles at their reactions, “Yes, you have an older sister... Well, adopted older sister rather.” he says with a lazy smile, nostalgia present in his eyes. For a brief moment, the background noise of the hotel blurs.

Charlie's eyes sparkled, “Wait, really?!” she asked excitedly and Lucifer smiled and ruffled her hair.

“Yes, back in heaven. Older angels were tasked to watch over the newly created angels and that's where I took an angel named [y/n] under my wings,” he explained, taking a deep breath as Charlie nodded intently, Husk giving her the wine glass filled with her drink. Lucifer looks at Charlie again, a somber smile on his face, “She's like a daughter to me and I was like a father to her, she always calls me dad.” he explains, his hand twirling the half empty glass cup, swirling the alcoholic drink around.

Charlie nodded, opting to listen to him and ask questions later, “We used to play everyday, I always spend time with her... Teaching her how to fly and how to use her powers.” he chuckles, his finger wiping away a stray tear from his eye.

“I think she grew up to be a powerful angel, after all, she manifested her powers at such an early age. I think she's a prodigy,” he smiles, his dull eyes sparkling as he mentions her, is what Charlie noticed and she just smiled at him, taking a small sip of her wine.

Lucifer took a sip of his own drink, tasting the vodka, coffee liqueur, and cream mixed together before gently placing down the cup back to the counter, “She actually shot my face with a blast of snow accidentally while trying to make a snowflake.” he says.

Charlie laughs at the story, imagining it, Lucifer smiles and he became sad again, thinking the what if's, what if heaven didn't curse him so bad and allowed him to see her or allow her to see him? What if [y/n] grew alongside Charlie? Would she have been a good older sister to Charlie?

“She sounds amazing, dad.” Charlie whispered to him with a smile and Lucifer nodded, “She is.” he agrees.

Charlie's eyes softened as she held her father's hand, “When was the last time you saw her? If you don't mind me asking?” she asked and Lucifer sighed, remembering [y/n]'s tear streamed chubby cheeks as she watched him fall from heaven, his twin brother, Michael holding onto the girl.

“When I fell from grace.” he whispered and Charlie's eyes saddened and she gave a reassuring squeeze to Lucifer's hand. She imagined how painful it must be for him and for her older sister. She wishes she'd gotten a chance to meet her.

“I am sure you two will meet again one day.” Charlie says with a small smile and Lucifer nodded, giving her a small smile in return. “I hope so, Charlie. You're going to love her.” he says, confidently.

“I think I already do, dad. She sounds amazing.” Charlie said with a grin and Lucifer chuckled, “You two will get along just fine when that time comes.”

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[strnilolover]

RESET BUTTON

Warnings : some cussing, rage quitting, pet names (baby, sweetheart), fluff

A/N : I’ve literally been wanting to play Minecraft for so long but can’t find the motivation to play, and every-time i want to play, i have the urge to start a whole new world. anyways…you slightly rage quitting at Minecraft but matt being the sweetest <3

The familiar pixelated landscape of Minecraft filled the screen in front of you, and your eyes were narrowed in concentration as you ventured deeper into a dark cave system.

Your inventory was filled with treasures you had worked hard to collect: iron, gold, and, most importantly, a handful of diamonds. It had taken hours of exploring to get this far, and you had even fought off a horde of mobs to secure these precious resources.

Your heart pounded as you navigated the narrow pathways, carefully placing torches to light the way and ward off any lurking monsters. The eerie sounds of the cave echoed in your headphones—creaks, groans, the distant hiss of a creeper.

You could feel your nerves building up, but you were determined to make it back to your base safely. And then you heard it—a faint clattering sound that sent a chill down your spine.

A skeleton.

Before you could react, an arrow whizzed past your character, landing with a dull thud against the stone wall. Panic set in as you spun around, trying to locate the source. The skeleton emerged from the darkness, its bony frame moving with precision as it pulled back another arrow. Your health bar dropped with each hit, and you felt the tension rise in your chest.

“No, no, no!” you shouted, your heart racing as you tried to block and retreat at the same time. You fumbled with the controls, your fingers slipping as you tried to eat something—anything—to regain health. The skeleton kept advancing, each arrow knocking you further into a corner.

You could hear the blood rushing in your ears, your vision focused entirely on the screen. The screen flashed red as another arrow hit, and your heart sank when you realized you had nowhere left to run.

One last shot, and your character crumpled to the ground, your inventory spilling out across the cave floor. The dreaded “You Died!” message appeared across the screen, and you stared at it in disbelief.

“No!” you yelled, louder this time, the frustration boiling over. “Are you fucking kidding me?! Stupid fucking skeleton!”

In a fit of rage, you threw the controller onto the couch, the soft impact barely satisfying as you clenched your hands into fists. It wasn’t just the game—it was everything.

The hours of progress lost, the carefully collected diamonds now scattered, all because of one stupid skeleton. Tears of frustration pricked at the corners of your eyes, and you took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself down.

From the other room, Matt had been minding his own business, scrolling through his phone when he heard your shout. His head snapped up, concern etched across his face. He pushed himself up from where he was sitting and made his way to your room, knocking lightly before pushing the door open.

“Hey, everything okay in here?” he asked, his eyes scanning the room until they landed on you—sitting on the couch, arms crossed, a deep frown on your face, your cheeks flushed in frustration.

You looked over at him, still fuming. “No, m’ not okay,” you huffed, gesturing towards the screen. “I died. I lost everything. Stupid skeleton shot me, and now all my stuff is gone.”

Matt’s eyes shifted to the screen, taking in the “You Died!” message still plastered across it. He tried to stifle a smile, but it was no use—he found your gaming frustration far too adorable.

He walked over to where you were sitting, plopping down beside you on the couch. “A skeleton, huh?” he said, nudging you playfully. “That’s rough baby.”

You shot him a glare, though it lacked real heat. “Don’t make fun of me,” you grumbled. “It’s just so annoying! I had so many diamonds, and now they’re gone. I don’t even know if I’ll find that cave again.”

Matt could see the frustration in your eyes, and his expression softened. He reached over, grabbing the controller you had tossed aside and holding it out to you. “Hey, listen. It’s just a game. We can go get more diamonds. I’ll help you. We’ll make it a team effort sweetheart.”

You looked at him, your frustration slowly beginning to melt away at the sight of his soft smile and the way his eyes crinkled at the corners. Matt always knew just how to calm you down, even when you were at your most irrational. It was one of the things you loved most about him—how patient he was with you.

“Fine,” you muttered, taking the controller from his hand, though you couldn’t stop the small smile forming on your lips. “But if we die again — I die again, I’m fucking done and not playing anymore.”

Matt chuckled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you closer to his side. “Deal. But with me here, I promise you—we’re gonna be unstoppable.” He reached for his own controller, ready to join in. “Besides, I’m not letting any skeleton get the best of you. Not on my watch.”

You sighed, leaning into him as he selected his character, the two of you loading back into the game. The warmth of his arm around you and the way he rested his chin lightly on top of your head made it hard to stay frustrated for long.

He had this way of making even the worst gaming losses feel like nothing more than a minor setback, just another challenge to face together.

“Okay,” Matt said as his character spawned beside yours. “First thing’s first—we’re getting you some armor. Full iron, maybe even diamond if we’re lucky. No skeleton’s gonna stand a chance.”

You glanced up at him, watching the way he focused on the screen, his brows furrowed slightly in determination. The same boyish excitement that filled his eyes when he played video games was back, and it made your heart swell.

Even over something as simple as Minecraft, Matt always took it seriously—because he knew it mattered to you.

“You better have my back,” you said, your voice softening as you leaned your head against his shoulder.

Matt gave you a confident grin, his fingers moving deftly over the controls as he began to gather resources. “Always,” he said, his voice filled with sincerity. “We’re a team, remember?”

A/N 2 : thinking of making a vampire!au for matt and possibly chris… but don’t know where to start. so if i’m not posting a lot it’s cause i’m frying my brain 🥰. But, i’m also not in the best place mentally right now, so i’m trying to work through that too. </3